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i 




DIANA OF 


ME RID O R; 


OR, THE 


LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


BY 


ALEXANDER 

AUTHOR OF “THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO,” “THE MOHICANS OF PARIS,” “THE THREE 
GUARDSMEN,” “TWENTY YEARS AFTER,” “FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN,” “THE ADVEN- 
TURES OF A MARQUIS,” “THE IRON MASK,” “ COUNTESS OF CHARNY,” “ BRAGELONNE,” 
“QUEEN’S NECKLACE,” “MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN,” “SIX YEARS LATER,” 
“LOUISE LA VALLIERE,” “THE CONSCRIPT,” “THE IRON HAND,” “EDMOND 
DANTES,” “THOUSAND PHANTOMS,” “GEORGE, OR THE PLANTER OF 
THE ISLE OF FRANCE,” “FERNANDE,” “ FELINA DE CHAMBURE,” 
“GENEVIEVE,” “SKETCHES IN FRANCE,” “ISABEL OF 

BAVARIA,” “THE CORSICAN BROTHERS,” “THE * 

HORRORS OF PARIS,” ETC., ETC., ETC. 

*/- * V . - *• 

V/ V: 1 

* 


DUMAS. 



VOLUME ONE. 


TWO VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE. 


. s 


•> > 
-» > > 


V V 

v ' 


|DI)Ua5d])l)ia: 

T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS, 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 





DMA OF MERIDOR; 


OR, 

the lady of monsoreau. 


PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE NUPTIALS. 

On Shrove-Sunday, in the spring of 
1578, at an hour when the popular 
diversions customary on that day 
were brought to a close, but while 
their echoes still lingered in the 
streets of the capital, a sumptuous 
carousal was commencing in the mag- 
nificent mansion, recently erected on 
, other side of the river, facing the 
Louvre, by the illustrious family of 
the Montmorencies, which, through 
its intermarriages with the blood 
r»yai, ranked among the princely 
families of the monarchy. The ob- 
ject of this private festivity was to 
celebrate the nuptials of Francis d’ 
Lpinay de Saint-Luc, one of the in- 
rniate friends and favorites of Kiim 
Henry III., with Joan de Cosse-Bris- 

sac, daughter of the Marshal of the 
same name. 

The regale had already been given 
at the Louvre, and there the Kino- 
was present, but in no other way did 
he manifest his approbation of the 
event. On the contrary, the severity 
ot his an- and manner was not at all 
in harmony with the occasion. His 
costume, moreover, tallied with the 
expression of his countenance: for 
it was the same dark brown costume 
m which he is represented by Clouet 
nearing at th? nuptials of Joyeuse ; 
his species of royal spectre, 


serious and majestic, had chilled *ifcfc 
teiroi the hearts of the guests, and 
especially of the young bride, toward 
whom he had, from time to time, cast 
glances that were anything but o-ra- 
cious or condescending. 

Nevertheless, the gloomy port and 
carriage of the King at a banquet 
where all else was joy and gaiety, had 
seemed strange to no one ; for the 
cause was one of that class of court 
secrets which may be compared to 
those rocks level with the surface of 
the water, which are certain to de- 
stroy the mariner who does but touch 
them. 

The repast was scarcely over, when 
the King rose, and agreeably to eti- 
quette, his example was followed by 
all present, including those who if 
t n.ii wishes had been consulted, 
would have remained at table. For 
this moment, Saint-Luc had waited, 
and casting one look towards his 
bude, as if to gather courage from 
her eyes, he approached the Kino-. 

“ Sire,” said, “ will your Majesty 
honor me by accepting the entertain- 
ment 1 purpose giving this evening at 
the Hotel Montmorency?” 

Henry III. turned round with a 
movement of peevish anger, whilst 
aint-Luc, on bended knee, continued 
to urge his suit in a subdued voice, 
and with such manner as he deemed 

best calculated to win a favorable 
answer. 

' ^ sir,” replied the Kin**, 

© • 


4 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u we shall be present, although you 
certainly do not deserve at our hands 
this evidence of regard.” 

O 

Then Mademoiselle de Brissac, 
just become Madame de Saint-Luc, 
humbly thanked the King ; but Hen- 
ry took no farther notice of either 
bride or bridegroom. 

u What has the King against you ?” 
inquired Joan of her husband. 

u Sweet one,” replied Saint-Luc, 
1,1 I’ll tell you another time — when the 
King’s anger shall have passed away. ” 

u But will it pass away?” conti- 
nued Joan. 

u It must,” replied Saint-Luc. 

Mademoiselle de Brissac had not 
been long enough Madame de Saint- 
Luc to insist farther ; so she repress- 
ed her curiosity, for the time being, 
promising herself to find a time and 
place when it would be out of Saint- 
Luc’s power to refuse to gratify it. 

Accordingly, at the moment of 
time our story opens, Henry’s pre- 
sence was expected at the Hotel 
Montmorency. But it was already 
eleven o’clock, and the king had not 
yet arrived. 

Saint-Luc’s invitations had ex- 
tended to all the Kind’s friends as 
well as his own ; he had included the 
princes and the friends of the princes, 
especially those of our old acquaint- 
ance, the Duke d’ Alenvon, become 
Duke of Anjou on the accession of 
Henry III. to the throne ; but the Duke 
of Anjou, who was not present at the 
banquet at the Louvre, did not seem 
likely to honor with his presence the 
ball at the Hotel Montmorency. 

As for the King arid Queen of Na- 
varre, .they had made their escape to 
Bearn, and were in open opposition, 
waging war at the head of the Hu- 

o C5 

genots. 

The Duke of Anjou, too, was, as 
usual, in the opposition, but his deeds 
were done in the dark. He took 
care to keep himself in the back- 
ground, whilst he urged forward such 
of his friends as had not been cured 
by the examples of Mole and Co- 
connas. 

t 


It is needless to say that his fol- 
lowers, and those of the King, were 
on the worst of terms ; in fact, en- 
counters between the hostile parties 
were frequent, and on such occasions 
death or fatal injury was almost in- 
variably the result to one or both of 
the parties engaged. 

As for Catherine, she had reached 
the summit of her wishes. Her 
dearly beloved son had reached that 
throne which she had so ardently 
coveted for him, or rather for herself. 
She reigned in his name, whilst, to 
all outward appearance, she was quitfl 
detached from the pomp and glory cJL 
this world, and solely occupied with 
the salvation of her soul in the other. 

Saint-Luc, although really alarmed 
by the continued absence of royalty, 
was exerting himself to re-assure his 
father-in-law, an undertaking of dif- 
ficult accomplishment. Convinced, 
like the rest of the world, of King 
Henry’s regard and friendship for 
Saint-Luc, he had hoped to ally him- 
self with the royal favor, when, be- 
hold, it seemed as if his daughter 
had connected herself with disgrace ! 
Saint-Luc was exhausting his in- 
genuity to convey a feeling of security 
which he himself did not possess, 
whilst his friends, Maugiron, Schom- 
berg, and Quelus, elaborately bedi- 
zened, stiff and erect in splendid 
doublets, with huge ruffs which 
seemed like dishes containing their 
heads, as at the banquet of King 
Herod, helped to unnerve him still 
more by their unfeeling raillery. 

u Really, my dear fellow,” said 
Quelus, u I’m afraid that this time 
you’re done for. The King bears you 
ill-will, because you scorned his ad- 
vice, and the Duke of Anjou because 
you scorned his nose !” 

u No,” replied Saint-Luc, u the 
King is not come because he has gone 
on a pilgrimage to the minions in 
Vincennes wood, and the Duke of 
Anjou is absent, because he is in 
love with some woman whom I have 
failed to invite to meet him here.” 
u Come,” said Maugiron, u did 


€ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


5 


you see the face the King put on at 
dinner? Was it exactly that of a 
man who was about to grasp the pil- 
grim’s staff, on pious thoughts intent ? 
And as regards the Duke of Anjou; 
granting his own absence to be occa- 
sioned by no cause you assign, why 
are not his Angevins here ? Is there 
a single one of them ? Look around ! 
a complete eclipse ! not even that 
swash -buckler, De Bussy!” 

“ Truly, gentlemen,” said the 
Duke de Brissac, dolefully shaking 
his head, “this has to me all the ap- 
pearance of a thorough disgrace. 
How can our house, that has never 
failed in devotion to the monarchy, 
have offended his Majesty?” 4 , 

In making this important query, 
the old courtier raised his two hands 
to heaven in anguish. 

The young nobles looked at Saint- 
Luc, and burst into roars of laughter, 
which, far from re-assuring the Duke, 
onlv made matters worse. 

Suddenly, at one of the doors 
opening into the room, the King’s 
presence was announced. 

“ Ah!” cried the Marshal, exult- 
ingly, “ now, I fear nothing, and could 
I but hear the Duke of Anjou’s name 
announced, my joy would be com- 
plete.” 

“ And I,” muttered Saint-Luc, “ I 
am still more afraid of the King pre- 
sent than of the King absent, for 1 feel 
convinced that he is here only for 
some sinister purpose ; and I feel 
equally convinced that it is for a 
sinister purpose the Duke of Anjou 
is absent.” 

Despite this unfavorable view of 
his position, he hastened forward to 
meet the King, who had changed his 
dark-brown costume, and was ad- 
vancing resplendent with satin, fea- 
thers, and jewels. 

But, at the same moment King 
Henry III. made his appearance at 
one of the doors, another Henry III., 
exactly like the first, dressed in the 
same colors, with an identical ruff, 
and in all respects identically bedi- 
zened, appeared at the opposite door. 


The courtiers, for an instant attracted 
towards the first, stopped short, like 
the stream at the pier of a bridge, 
and fell back in circling eddies from 
the first to the second king. 

Henry III. remarked the move- 
ment, and seeing before him nothing 
but gaping mouths, staring eyes, and 
numerous bodies describing an infinite 
variety of pirouettes, exclaimed : 

“ Well, gentlemen, what is the 
matter ?” 

A prolonged burst of laughter was 
the only answer. The King, naturally 
impatient, and in his present mood 
indisposed to pleasantry., was begin- 
ning to knit his eye-brows, when 
Saint-Luc approached him. 

u Sire,” said the latter, “it is 
your jester, Chicot, who has dressed 
himself up precisely like your Ma- 
jesty, and who is offering his hand to 
the ladies that they may kiss it.” 

Henry III. laughed. Chicot en- 
joyed at the court of the last Valois 
a liberty similar to that which was 
enjoyed thirty years previous by Tri- 
boulet at the court of Francis I., and 
which was enjoyed forty years later 
by Langely, at the court of King 
Louis XIII. ' 

In fact, Chicot was no ordinary 
merry-andrew. Before bearing the 
name of Chicot, he had been called 
De Chicot. He was a gentleman by 
birth, who, driven from his native 
province of Brittany by the ill-treat- 
ment of Monsieur de Mayenne, had 
taken refuge under the protection of 
Henry III., and who repaid with 
merry sayings, sometimes involving 
painful truths, the favor of the mon- 
arch. 

“ Ho ! Master Chicot,” said Hen- 
ry, “two kings here are rather too 
many.” 

“ Then let me play my part of 
king after my fashion, and do you 
try your best at that of Duke of An- 
jou ; perhaps you’ll be taken for him, 
and if so, you may have things said 
to you by which you may learn, not 

what he thinks, but what he does.” 

/ 

“ I had forgotten,” said the King. 


6 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


looking round with a dissatisfied air, 
“ my brother of Anjou is not here.” 
u The very reason why you should 
take his place. It is agreed ; I am 
Henry, and you are Francis. I’ll 
bear the sceptre, and you’ll dance ; 
I’ll ape the monarch, whilst you’ll 
amuse yourself. Poor King !” 

The King, who was watching Saint- 
Luc, replied : 

u You are right, Chicot ; I’ll 
dance.” 

u Certainly,” thought* Brissac, u I 
was wrong in supposing the King to 
be displeased with us. On the con- 
trary, his Majesty is in excellent hu- 
mor.” 

And he ran from right to left, con- 
gratulating every one, and especially 
himself, for having bestowed his 
daughter on a man possessing so 
large a share of the royal favor. 

Meanwhile, Saint-Luc had rejoin- 
ed his wife. Mademoiselle de Bris- 
sac was not exactly a beauty, but she 
had fine black eyes, black hair, white 
teeth, and a dazzling complexion, 
the whole constituting a countenance 
of rare intelligence. 

Still pre-oocupied by one idea, 
ci Monsieur,” said she to her hus- 
band, u what have people been tell- 
ing: me ? That the King was dis- 
cs 3 

pleased with me ! Why, since he 
has been here, he has done nothing 
but smile on me.” 

u You didn’t say so on our way 
back from dinner, my dear Joan ; 
his look then terrified you.” 

u His Majesty was doubtless out 
of humor then,” said the young 
wife, u but now-—” 

u Now ’tis worse,” interrupted 
Saint-Luc ; u the King is laughing 
with closed lips. I had rather he 
Should show liis teeth. Joan, my 
sweet one, the King is planning some 
treachery against us. Here now, 
don’t look so tenderly at me. Rather 
turn your back on me. Here comes 
Maugiron ; don’t let him pass you ; 
seize upon him — do what you can to 
occupy his attention.” 

u Do you know, sir,” said Joan, 


smiling, “ you are giving rather sin- 
gular advice, and that if I followed it 
literally, people might think — ” 

u Ah!” interrupted Saint-Luc, with 

a sigh, u all would be well if people, 
really should think so.” 

And, turning away from his 
whose astonishment could not b« 
surpassed, he crossed over to pay him 
court to Chicot, who was enacting 
the part of King in a most diverting 
manner. 

Meanwhile, Henry, availing him- 
self of the license he had given him- 
self, was dancing, but while hr 
danced, he never lost sight of Saint 
Luc. 

Sometimes he called him over t« 
make some jocular remark, which, 
whether of good or false alloy, had 
the privilege of making the listener 
laugh. At other times, he offered 
him, from his comfit box, crisp al- 
monds and dried fruits, which Saint- 
Luc would declare to be delicious. 
And, if Saint-Luc disappeared for a 
moment from a room in which the 
King was, to do the honors of a host 
elsewhere, a page or officer was imme- 
diately dispatched for him ; where- 
upon Saint-Luc would return smiling 
to his master, who was only to be 
satisfied by his constant presence. 

Suddenly a noise, sufficiently loud 
to be distinguished from the general 
tumult, struck Henry’s ears. 

u Ho !” said he ; u it seems to me 
I hear Chicot’s voice. Listen, Saint- 
Luc ! The King is angry.” 

u Yes, sire,” replied Saint-Luc ; 
u he seems to be quarrelling wkh 
some one.” 

u Go and see what it is,” said the 
King, u and hasten back to let me 
know.” 

Saint-Luc went on his errand. 

Chicot was heard screaming through 
his nose, as the King was wont, on 
certain occasions, to do. 

u I have made various sumptuary 
proclamations, nevertheless. But, if 
those I have made will not suffice, I 
shall make others; I shall make them 
until they do suffice ; I shall make up 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


by quantity what they may want in 
quality. By the great horn of Bel- 
zebub, cousin — six pages, Monsieur 
de Bussy, exceed all bounds.” 

And Chicot, puffing his cheeks, 
bending his hips, and placing one arm 
a-kimbo, did the king to admiration. 

u What does he say about De Bus- 
gy ?” asked the King, knitting his 
eye-brows. 

Saint-Luc, who had returned, was 
on the point of answering the King, 
when the crowd, opening, made way 
for six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, 
decorated with collars, and wearing 
emblazoned on their breasts the ar- 
morial bearings of their master, blaz- 
ing with precious stones. Behind 
them stepped a man, young, proud, 
and handsome ; his head was thrown 
back, his eye bold and daring, his lip 
disdainfully turned up, while his 
plain black, velvet dress, contrasted 
with the rich liveries of his pages. 

u Bussy !” was heard on all sides ; 
u Bussy d’Amboise !” Everyone ran 
forward to see or greet the new comer, 
and then stood aside to let him pass. 

Maugiron, Schomberg and Quelus, 
placed themselves by the King’s side, 
as if to defend him. 

u See !” said the first, alluding to 
the unexpected presence of De Bussy, 
and to the protracted absence of the 
Duke of Anjou, to whom De Bussy 
was attached ; u see ! here comes the 
valet, but not the valet’s master.” 

“ Wait awhile,” returned Quelus, 
u before the valet, we had the valet’s 
valets. The valet’s master is perhaps 
behind the master of the six valets.” 
u I say, Saint-Luc,” said Schom- 
berg, the youngest of King Henry’s 
mignons , and one of the bravest, 
u Monsieur de Bussy does you but 
slight honor. See his black doublet ! 
Mordieu! do you call that awedding 
garment ?” 

u No,” said Quelus, u but it 
would do for a funeral !” 

u Ah !” muttered Henry, u why is 
it not for his own ? Why does he 
not wear, by anticipation, his own 
mourning ?” 


u Meanwhile, Saint-Lac,” said 
Maugiron, u the Duke of Anjou does 
not seem to follow Bussy. Are you 
also in disgrace in that quarter?” 

The also made Saint-Luc wince. 
u Why should he follow Bussy ?” 
returned Quelus. u Don’t you re- 
collect that when his Majesty did 
Monsieur de Bussy the honor of ask- 
ing him to be one of his Majesty’s 
men, Monsieur de Bussy made an- 
swer, that inasmuch as he belonged 
to the princely house of Clermont, 
he saw no occasion to bestow himself 
on any one, and that he was satisfied 
to remain his own master, assured, as 
he was, that he could find no better 
prince than himself in all the world 
round.” 

The King frowned, and bit his 

mustache. 

u Notwithstanding what you say, 
Quelus,” returned Maugiron, u 5 tis 
pretty evident he’s one of Monscig 
neur d’ Anjou’s men.” 

u It follows then,” replied Quelus, 
logically, u that Monseigneur d’ An- 
jou is a greater lord than our King.” 
This was the most irritating re 
mark that could be made in the pre 
sence of Henry, who had always fra- 
ternally detested his brother of An- 
jou. 

Accordingly, although no word fell 
from his lips, he was seen to 
color. 

u Come, come, gentlemen,” ven- 
tured to remark Saint-Luc, with no 
small fear and trembling; u spare my 
guesfs ; don’t mar my wedding-day.” 
These words of Saint-Luc seemed 
to restore Henry to another order of 
thought. 

u Yes, gentlemen,” said he, u let 
us not mar Saint-Luc’s wedding-day.” 
As he pronounced these words, he 
twisted his fingers in his mustache 
in a jeering manner, which did not 
escape the notice of the poor bride- 
groom. 

u Ho! Ho!” cried Schomberg, 
u so Bussy is related to the Bris^aes. ” 
u Why so ?” asked Maugiron. 

I u Why ? Because Saint-Luc t^kes 



I 


8 ' DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


liis part. Que diable! In this lower 
world, where man has enough to do 
to take care of himself, we’re not likely 
to fight other people’s battles, unless 
they happen to be our relatives, con- 
nexions or friends.” 

u Gentlemen,” said Saint-Luc, 
“ Monsieur de Bussy is neither my 
connexion, friend nor relative. He 
is my guest.” 

The King cast a furious look at 
Saint-Luc. 

u And moreover,” hastened the 
latter to add, deprecating the King’s 
anger, u I am not taking his part the 
least in the world.” 

Bussy had slowly approached be- 
hind his pages, and was preparing to 
make his obeisance to the King, when 
Chicot, mortified by not having his 
claim to precedence acknowledged, 
exclaimed : 

u Ho, there, I say — Bussy, Bussy 
d’ Amboise, Louis de Clermont, 
Count de Bussy — since I must give 
you all your titles to make you un- 
derstand that it is to you I’m speak- 
ing — can’t you see the real Henry ? 
Can’t you tell the King from the 
jester ? You’re going towards Chi- 
cot, my fool, my merry-andrew — 
who does so many silly things, that 
I sometimes split my sides laughing 
at them.” 

Bussy went on his way, and had 
reached the King, before whom he 
was on the point of bending, when 
Henry said to him : 

u Do you not hear, Monsieur de 
Bussy? You are called.” 

And in the midst of bursts of 
laughter from his mignons , he turned 
his back on the young officer. 

Bussy reddened with anger ; but 
repressing his first movement, he af- 
fected to take seriously the King’s 
remark, and without appearing to 
have heard the insolent jeers of Que- 
lus, Schomberg and Maugiron, turned 
round in the direction of Chicot. 

u I beg pardon, Sire,” said he, 
u but there be Kings who so closely 
resemble fools, that I trust you will 


excuse me for having taken your fool 
for a King.” 

o 

u Ahem !” muttered Henry, arrest- 
ing his steps ; u what does he say ?” 
u Nothing, Sire,” replied Saint- 
Luc, who seemed that evening to 
have received from above the mission 
of pacificator, u nothing, absolutely 
nothing.” 

u It matters not, Master Bussy,” 
said Chicot, raising himself on his 
toes, as was the King’s wont, when 
putting on the airs of majesty; u the 
thing is inexcusable.” 

u Sire,” replied Bussy, u pardon 
me, I was thinking of something else.” 
u Of your pages, sir,” said Chicot, 
angrily. u You are ruining yourself 
in pages, and by so doing, Morbleu , 
you entrench on our prerogatives.” 
u How so ?” said Bussy, who knew 
that by entering the lists with the 
merry- an divw, the King’s side would 
get the worst of it. u I entreat your 
Majesty to explain, and if I have 
really erred, I shall make humble 
amends.” 

u Gold cloth on such knaves,” said 
Chicot, pointing to the pages, u whilst 
you, a noble, a Colonel, a Clermont, 
almost a prince, you are dressed in 
plain black velvet !” 
u Sire, ’’said Bussy, turning towards 
the mignons of the King, u when one 
lives in an age in which knaves are 
dressed like princes, I maintain that 
it is a mark of good taste in princes, 
to dress like knaves, by way of dis- 
tinction.” 

As he pronounced these words, 
he paid back to the young mignons , 
sparkling with ornaments, the imper- 
tinent smile they had bestowed on 
him a moment previously. 

Henry saw his favorites turn pale 
with anger ; they evidently only want- 
ed a word from their master to fall 
on Bussy. Quelus, the most excited 
of their number against him, and 
who would have already fought him, 
had it not been for the express inhi- 
bition of the King, had his hand on 
Lis sword’s hilt. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


9 


“Is it for me and mine, you mean 
that ?” cried Chicot, who, having 
taken the King’s place, spoke as the 
King should have spoken. 

The jester’s attitude of defiance 
was so extravagantly ridiculous that 
one half of the company burst into 
laughter. The other half did not 
laugh, and for a very simple reason — 
the half that laughed was laughing 
At the half that did not laugh. 

Three of Bussy’s friends, imagining 
that there would be a brawl, had 
taken their places by his side. These 
were Charles Balzac d’Entraques, 
commonly called Entraquet, Livarot, 
and Ribeirac. 

Seeing these preliminaries of hostili- 
ty, Saint-Luc divined that Bussy had 
been sent there by the king’s brother 
to make a disturbance or pick a quar- 
rel. His fears increased, for he felt 
himself placed as an intermediate be- 
tween the violent passions of two 
great hostile powers, who had selected 
his house as their battle-field. 

He ran over to Quelus, who ap- 
peared excited beyond the others, 
and placing his hand on the pommel 
of the young noble’s sword, whisper- 
ed : 

“ In the name of heaven, my dear 
fellow, be calm, and let us wait.” 

“ Eh ! pardieu ! be calm yourself,” 
cried Quelus. “ That lubber’s blow 
hits you as well as me ; whoever at- 
tacks one of us, attacks us all ; and 
whoever attacks us all, attacks the 
King.” 

Quelus, Quelus, bethink yourself 
of the Duke of Anjou, who is be- 
hind Bussy, all the more on the 
watch because he is absent, all the 
more to be feared because he is invi- 
sible. You will not do me the injus- 
tice to suppose that it is the valet, 
and not the master, whom I fear.” 
u Mordieu /” cried Quelus, “ whom 
need we fear when we belong to the 

o 

King of France ? If we expose our- 
selves to peril in his behalf, the King 
of France will defend us.” 

u Yes, yes, but me!” said Saint- 
Luc, piteously. 


u Oh ! as for that,” said Quelus, 
“ why get married, knowing how jeal- 
ous the King is in his friendships?” 
u I see,” said Saint-Luc, to him- 
self, “ every one thinks of himself. 
I’ll look out for myself ; and since I 
would live in peace and quiet, one 
fortnight, at least, after marriage, lot, 
us try and make a friend of Mon- 
seigneur d’Anjou.” 

Having come to this conclusion, he 
left Quelus, and went over toward 
Bussy. 

After delivering his impertinent 
reply, Bussy had looked round the 
room with his ears open, to catch 
whatever retort he might have pro*- 
voked. But all heads were turned 
aside, and all lips were mute. Some 
were afraid to approve in the presence 
of the King, others to condemn in the 
presence of Bussy. 

The latter, seeing Saint-Luc mak- 
ing up to him, took it for granted 
that he had at last found what he had 
been looking for. 

“ Monsieur,” asked Bussy, “ you 
seem desirous of speaking to me — 
am I indebted for this honor to what 
I have just said ?” 

“ To what you have just said,” 
returned Saint-Luc, with all possible 
suavity of manner. “ What have 
you just said ? I heard nothing ; but 
I saw you, and would wish to have 
the pleasure of bidding you welcome, 
and of thanking you for the honor of 
your presence in my house.” 

Bussy was a man superior in all 
things ; brave to rashness, but 
lettered, witty, and excellent com- 
pany. lie knew Saint-Luc’s courage, 
and did not fail to perceive that, 
under the circumstances, his devoir 
as a host prevailed over the suscepti- 
bility of the court exquisite. To 
any other person he would have re- 
peated his provocation ; but he con- 
tented himself with merely bowing to 
Saint-Luc, and making reply in a few 
words of finished politeness. 

“ So, so !” said Henry, seeing 
Saint-Luc with Bussy, u I believe my 
young cock has bearded the swagger- 


10 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


er. He lias done well, but I don’t 
want to have him killed. Go and 
see, Quelus. No, not you, Quelus, 
you’re too hot-headed. Go and see, 
Maugiron.” 

Away darted Maugiron ; hut, 
Saint-Luc, who was on the watch, 
did not permit him to reach Bus- 
sy, and returning to the King’s pre- 
sence, brought back Maugiron with 
him. 

u What were you saying to that 
puppy Bussy ?” asked the King. 

“ I, Sire ?” 
u Yes, you.” 

“ I was bidding him good even- 
ing.” 

u Ah ! that was all !” grumbled 
the King. u That was all, was it ?” 
Saint-Luc perceived that he had 
missed his point. 

u I was bidding him good evening,” 
he resumed, u adding that I would 
have the pleasure of bidding him 
good morning no later than to-mor- 
row.” 

u Oh !” said Henry, “ I guessed as 
much. Madcap.” 

u But will your gracious Majesty 
keep my secret,” said Saint-Luc. 

u Oh, pardieu /” returned Henry, 
<( I have no wish to interfere with 
you. I am sure if you could rid me 
of him without receiving a scratch 
yourself” — 

The mignons rapidly exchanged 
looks, which the King did not seem to 
notice. 

u For, really,” continued the King, 
u the knave is insolent.” 

u Yes, yes,” said Saint-Luc ; 
u but, rely upon one thing, Sire; he’ll 
■find his master one of these days.” 
u The rascal,” returned the King, 
moving his head up and down. 
iC He’s a good hand at the sword. 
Why doesn’t he get bitten by some 
mad dog ? Then we should be rid 
of him in the right way.” 

Saying these words, he scowled at 
Bussy, who, accompanied by his 
three friends, was moving about, jeer- 
ing those whom he knew to be most 
hostile to the Duke of Anjou, and 


who were, therefore, as a matter of 
course, the King’s best friends. 

u Corbleu /” cried Chicot, u you 
mustn’t elbow my gentlemen mig- 
nons in that stvle, for I can handle a 
sword, king as I am, neither more nor 
less than if I were a fool.” 

u Ah ! the knave,” muttered Hen- 
ry c u by my troth, he hits right.” 
u Let him repeat his impertinent 
jest, and I’ll chastise him, Sire,” said 
Maugiron. 

u Don’t attempt it, Maugiron ; 
Chicot is a gentleman, and very 
touchy on the point of honor. Be- 
sides, it is not he who deserves chas- 
tisement, for he is not the most inso- 
lent.” 

This time, there was no mistaking 
the King’s meaning. Queluslnade a 
sign to D’O, and D’Epernon. 

u Gentlemen,” said Quelus, taking 
them aside, u let us consult together , 
as for you, Saint-Luc, entertain the 
King, and complete your work of re- 
storing peace.” 

Saint-Luc preferred the part as- 
signed to him, and joined the King 
and Chicot, who were engaged in 
wordy contention. 

Quelus withdrew with his four 
friends to a window recess. 

u Well,” asked D’Epernon, u what 
have you to tell us ? I was busy pay- 
ing my court to Madame de Joyeuse. 
I give you fair notice, that, unless 
you have something very interesting 
to communicate, I’ll not pardoy 
you. ” 

u I want to tell you, gentlemen,” 
said Quelus, u that it is my pur- 
pose, immediately this ball is over, to 
take to the field.” 

u Good,” said D’O, u for what ?” 
“ To hunt the wild boar.” 
u What a ridiculous whim ! To 
get a dig from a boar in this cold 
weather won’t be so very pleasant.” 
u It matters not ; I shall go.” 
u Alone ?” * 

u No : with Maugiron and Schom- 
berg. We hunt for the King.” 
u Yes, I understand,” said Schoia- 
I berg and Maugiron together 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


It 


“ The King would like to have a 
boar’s head served up to-morrow.” 

“ With a cape thrown back, a 
Vltalienne ,” said Maugiron, alluding 
to the plain falling collar worn by 
Bussy, out of opposition to the ruffs 
of the mignons. 

“Ah!” said D’Epernon, “good! 
I’m of the party.” 

“ What’s in the wind ?” asked D’O, 
“ I don’t take.” 

“ Look about you, mon mignon .” 
“Well! I do look.” 

“ Do you see any one laughing in 
your faces ?” 

“ Bussy, it seems, to me.” 

“ Weli, don’t you think that he is 
a boar whose head would be agreeable 
to the King ?” 

“You think that the King” — 
said D’O. 

“ He, himself, asked for it,” said 
Quelus. 

“ Then be it so. To the hunt ; 
but, how shall we take our game ?” 

“ On the wait ; that mode is the 
surest.” 

Bussy remarked the conference, and 
not doubting but that he was the sub- 
ject of it, he drew nigh, tittering with 
his friends. 

“ Look, Antraguet; look, Ribeirac,” 
said he ; “ see how they are grouped ! 
How touching;! Euryalus and Nisus, 
Damon and Pythias, Castor and — 
but where is Pollux?” 

•“ Pollux is getting married.” said 
Antraguet, “ so that Castor has lost 
his mate.” 

“ What can they be about there ?” 
asked Bussy, staring at them imper- 
tincntlv. 

“ I’ll wager,” said Ribeirac, 
“ they’re designing some new species 
of starch.” 

“ No, gentlemen,” said Quelus, 
“we were discoursing of hunting.” 

o o 

“ Indeed, lord Cupid,” said Bussy, 
“ it is rather cold for hunting, you’ll 
get your skin chapped.” 

“ Monsieur,” returned Maugiron, 
with the same urbanity, “ we have 
warm gloves, and our doublets are 
well lined.” 


“ Ah ! I am glad to hear it,” said 
Bussy. “ Shall you take the field 
soon P’ 

“ To-night, probably,” said Schom- 
berg. 

“I’ll notify the King,” said Bussy, 
“ What would his Majesty say, if in 
the morning he should find his friends 
with sore throats ?” 

“You need not give yourself so 
much trouble, sir,” said Quelus. 
“ His Majesty is aware of our pur- 
pose.” 

“ The lark, then, will be your 
game ?” returned Bussy, with an air 
of impertinent inquiry. 

“ No, sir,” said Quelus, “ we hunt 
the wild boar. We want his head, 
and will have it.” 

“ And the beast ?” — asked Antra- 
guet. 

“ Is harbored,” said Schomberg 
“ That may be, but still you must, 
know where he’ll pass,” said Liv- 
arot. 

“ We’ll find that out,” said D’O 
“ Will you bear us company, Mon- 
sieur de Bussy ?” 

“No,” replied the latter, continu- 
i ing the conversation on the same 
tone, “ I have another engagement 
To-morrow, I must be in waiting on the 
Duke of Anjou, for the reception of 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, on whom, 
you are aware, my Lord has bestowed 
the office of Master of the Hounds ” 
“ But, to-night ?” 

“Oh! to-night, I’ve an appoint- 
ment at a mysterious house in the 
Faubourg St. Antoine .” 

“Ah!” returned D’Epernon, “ is 
Queen Margot here incognito, Mon- 
sieur de Bussy, for we hear that you 
have succeeded to the place occupied 
by La Mole when be was living ?” 

“ Yes, but for some time I have 
relinquished it ; my adventure con- 
cerns a different person.” 

“ And that person expects to meet 
you in the Rue de Faubourg St . An - 
toine ?” asked D’O. 

“Just so; I will even take the 
liberty of soliciting from you a piece 
j of advice, Monsieur de Quelus ” 


IS 


DIANA OF ME RID OR; OR, 


“ Speak, sir. Although. I am not 
learned in the law, I may not give a 
bad opinion, especially to a friend.” 
“ The streets of Paris are said not 
to be very safe ; the Faubourg St. 
Antoine is a lonesome quarter of the 
city. What road would you advise 
me to take ?” 

“ Ahem,” said Quelus, “ as the 
Louvre ferry-boat will doubtless be 
in waiting for you, in your place, I 
would take the small ferry at the 
Pres-aux-Clercs , I’d land at the cor- 
ner tower, then I’d take the quay as 
far as the Grand-Chatelet, and thence 
by the Rue de la Fixer anderie, I’d 
reach the Faubourg St. Antoine. Once 
at the end of the street of the Faubourg 
St. Antoine , if you pass the Hotel des 
Tournelles without accident, you’ll 
probably reach with a whole body the 
mysterious dwelling which you say is 
your destination.” 

“ Many thanks for your itinerary, 
Monsieur Quelus,” said Bussy. “ Let 
me enumerate : the ferry at the 

Pres-aux-Clercs , the corner tower, 
quay as far as the Grand-Chatelet, 
the Rue de la Tixeranderie and the 
Rue St. Antoine. I’ll follow your 
directions, without fail.” 

Bowing to the five friends, he took 
his leave, saying aloud to Balzac d’ 
Entraques : 

'“ Positively, there’s nothing to be 
done with those fellows.” 

Livarot and Ribeirac followed 
laughing, while the whole party re- 
peatedly turned round until they 
were out of sight. 

The mignons remained unmoved ; 
they appeared to have made up their 
minds to understand nothing. 

As Bussy was crossing the last sa- 
loon, in which was Madame de St. 
Luc, who was careful not to lose 
sight of her husband, Saint-Luc made 
her a sign which pointed to the fa- 
vorite of the Duke of Anjou, then 
taking his departure. Joan, with all 
a woman’s perspicuity, understood in- 
stantly her husband’s meaning, and 
hastening forward, barred the gentle- 
man ’s way. 


“ Oh ! Monsieur de Bussy,” said 
she, “ all the world are talking about 
a sonnet attributed to you.” 

“ Against the King, madam r ” 
asked Bussy. 

u No, but in honor of the Queen 
Oh ! let me hear it.” 

“ Willingly, madame,” said Bussy, 
and offering his arm to Madame de 
Saint-Luc, he moved away repeating 
his sonnet. 

Meanwhile, Saint-Luc quietly re- 
joined the mignons , and before ho 
was perceived, heard Quelus say : 

“ It will be an easy matter to fol- 
low the beast’s track, with such in- 
formation. So then, at the angle 
of the Hotel des Tournelles , near the 
St. Antoine gate opposite the Hotel 


St. Pol.” 

“ Each of us with a servant ?” 
asked D’Epernon. 

“No, Nogaret, no,” said Quelus: 
“ we must be unattended : our pur- 
pose must not be known, and we must, 
do our own work. 1 hate him ; but 
I would not have him struck down by 
menials : he is of too good birth for 
such a fate.” 

“ Shall we take our departure all 
six together ?” asked Maugiron. 

o 


“ All five you mean, not all six,” 
said Saint-Luc. 

“Oh! true; we forgot that you 
had taken to yourself a wife. We 
rated you as still one of us — a bache- 
lor,” said Schomberg. 

“ And then,” added D’O, “ poor 
Saint-Luc must be permitted to pass 
the first night, at least, after marriage 
with his wife.” 

“You don’t understand me, gen- 
tlemen,” said Saint-Luc; “ ’tis not 
my wife that hinders me, although 
you’ll allow she deserves a greater 
sacrifice : it is the King.” 

“ How the King ?” 

“Yes, the King: for I have his 
Majesty’s orders to wait on him back 
to the Louvre.” 

His companions looked at, each 
other with a smile, the significaney of 
which Saint-Luc tried in vain to 
penetrate. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATJ. 


13 


“Just so,” said Quclus; u such is 1 
Vhe King’s friendship that he cannot 1 
do without you.” ] 

u Besides,” said Schombcrg, “ we i 
don’t want Saint-Luc ; so let us ; 
leave him with his King and his lady.” 
u And yet ” said D’ Epcrnon, “'the 
beast is a big one.” 

u Bah !” said Quelus, “ only let 
me get at him ; give me a boar-spear, 
and I’ll transfix him.” 

Henry’s voice was heard calling 
Saint-Luc. 

“ You hear, gentlemen,” said the 
latter ; “ the King calls ; good sport 
to you, till we meet again !” 

With these words he left them. 
But instead of going straight to the 
King, he glided along the walls, still 
lined with spectators and dancers, 
until he reached the door where Bussy 
was detained by the charming bride, 
who had exerted herself to her ut- 
most to delay his departure. 

“ Ah ! good evening, Monsieur de 
Saint-Luc,” said the young noble. 

“ Why you look quite beside your- 
self! Are you, perchance, to make 
one of the great hunt your friends are 
organizing ? It would certainly be a 
proof of your courage, but not of 
your gallantry.” 

“ No, sir,” replied Saint-Luc; 

“ if 1 look anxious, it is because I 
wanted to see you.” 

“ Ah ! indeed.” 

“ — and because I was afraid you 
had already tdken your departure. 
Dear Joan,” added he, “ tell your 
father to try and detain the King : I 
want to say two words in private to 
Monsieur de Bussy.” 

Joan hastened on her errand; she 
did not understand all these wants ; 
but she submitted to them, believing 
them to be important. 

u What do you wish to say to me, 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc?” asked 
Bussy. 

u 1 would say to you, Monsieur de 
Bussy,” replied Saint-Luc, “ that if 
you have an appointment for this 
evening, you would do well to post- 
pone it till to-morrow, inasmuch as 


the streets of Paris are not safe , and 
farther, that if, perchance, your ap- 
pointment is in the neighborhood of 
the Bastille, you would do well to 
avoid the Hotel des Tournelles , ad- 
joining which there is a place where 
several men could conceal themselves. 
You have now heard what I had to 
say to you, Monsieur de Bussy. 
Heaven forefend that I should suspect 
a man like you of entertaining fear ! 
Yet, think well on it.” 

At this moment, Chicot was heard 
calling at the top of his voice : 

u Saint-Luc ! sweet Saint-Luc ! 
come, don’t be hiding yourself. You 
see I’m waiting for your company 
back to the Louvre.” 

“ Here I am, Sire,” cried Saint- 
Luc, hastening in the direction of 
Chicot’s voice. 

• Near the jester stood Henry III, : 
one page was already handing him 
the heavy cloak lined with ermine, 
whilst another held ready his largo 
gloves reaching to the elbow, and a 
third the velvet mask lined with 
satin. 

“ Sire,” said Saint-Luc, address- 
ing himself to the two Henries, “ with 
your permission, I will have the hono 
of lighting you to your litters.” 

“ By no means,” said Henry, 

“ Chicot goes his way and I go mine. 
My friends are all good-for-nothing 
fellows to allow me to return alone to 
the Louvre, while they are taking * 
their pleasure. 1 relied upon them, 
and now they fail me. You are 
bound not to leave me alone. Yac 
are a grave married man, and must 
see me back to the Queen. Come, 
my dear fellow. Ho, there ! a horse 
for Monsieur de Saint-Luc. But 
no ; there’s no occasion,” added he, 
u my litter is large enough for both ” 

Joan de Brissae had not lost a 
word of this conversation ; she want- 
ed to interfere — to say one word 
to her husband — to inform her father 
that the King was carrying off Saint- 
Luc ; but Saint-Luc, placing his fin- 
ger on his lips, cautioned her to }>« 
silent and circumspect 


14 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


4 ( Plague on it!” he isrirHored, 
u now that I have managed matters 
with Francis of Anjou, I mustn’t 
quarrel with Henry of Valois. Sire,” 
added he, aloud, u I am here — I am 
so devoted to your Majesty, that 
should you require it, I would follow 
you to the end of the world.” 

There was a great tumult, then a 
great bending of knees, and lastly, a 
great silence, while the King was 
taking leave of Mademoiselle de 
Brissac and her father. His manner 
could not have been more gracious. 

Steeds were prancing in the court- 
yard, and torches cast their reflection 
on the window-panes. Laughing and 
shivering, all the courtiers of royalty 
and all the wedding guests fled away 
in the shade and darkness. 

Joan, left alone with her women, 
entered her room, and knelt before 
the image of a saint in whose prayers 
the placed great reliance. She then 
desired her attendants to withdraw, 
and ordered a collation to be in 
readiness against her husband’s re- 
turn. 

Monsieur de Brissac did more, for 
he sent a guard of sis men to watch 
for the young bridegroom at the gate 
of the Louvre, and to escort him *to 
his home. But, after waiting two 
hours, the guards dispatched one of 
their number to inform the Marshal 
that all the gates were closed and 
fastened, and that before closing the 
last, the captain of the watch had 
said : 

u You need wait no longer; no 
one will leave the Louvre to-night. 
His Majesty has retired, and all the 
inmates are asleep.” 

The Marshal bore this intelligence 
to his daughter, who declared that 
she was too uneasy to sleep, and that 
she would sit up for her husband. 


CHAPTER I I. 

HOW IT MAY COME TO PASS THAT IT 

IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO KNOCKS 

AT A DOOR WHO GETS INSIDE OF IT 

The Saint-Antoine gate was a species 
of stone vault, something like our 
Saint-Denis gate and Saint- Martin 
gate of the present day, only it was 
connected on the left with the build- 
ings adjoining the Bastille, and thus 
was a sort of extension of the old 
fortress. 

The vacant space lying on the 
right, between the gate and the Hotel 
de Bretagne , was dark, miry, and ex- 
tensive ; it was but little frequented 
during the day, and was a perfect 
solitude by night ; for nocturnal wan- 
derers selected a way closer to the 
fortress, with the view, at one epoch, 
when the streets were man-traps, and 
such a thing as a watch was unknown, 
or nearly so, of placing themselves 
under the protection of the sentry of 
the keep, who could not, it is true, 
yield assistance, but who could by his 
cries give an alarm equally effectual. 

It is needless to say that passen- 
gers were more on their guard during 
the long nights of winter than during 
the summer. 

The night on which passed the 
events we have been relating, was so 
cold, and so much darkened by black 
masses of lowering clouds, that it 
would have been impossible to dis- 
tinguish the sentry behind the battle- 
ments of the royal fortress, and 
equally impossible for the sentry to 
see the passer-by on the square be- 
low. 

In front of the Saint-Antoine crate, 
on the city side, were high walls, but 
no houses. The walls were, on the 
right, those of St. Paul’s church, and 
on the left, those of the Hotel des 
Tournelles. At the extremity of the 
hotel, ad joining the Rue St. Catherine , 
the wall made the re-entering angle 
mentioned by Saint-Luc in his cau- 
tion to Bussy. 

Then came a cluster of housea 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


15 


lying between the Rue de Joly and the 
wain street of the Faubourg St. An- 
toine, which latter, at the epoch of 
our tale, had facing it, the Rue des 
BUlettes and St. Catherine^ church. 

No lantern lighted that part of 
old Paris which we have been de- 
scribing. On bright nights, when the 
rncon illuminated the earth, the eye 
could distinguish the gloomy, majes- 
tic, and stationary outline of the 
gigantic Bastille, brought out in bold 
relief on the starry azure of the firma- 
ment. On dark nights, on the con- 
trary, the place it occupied presented 
merely a reduplication of darkness, 
perforated here and there by a few 
scattering windows. 

During this night, which had com- 
menced with a sharp frost, and was 
to finish with a heavy fall of snow, 
no passing steps creaked on the frozen 
and crusted surface of the species of 
causeway leading from the street to 
the suburb, which we have said was 
the circuitous but safe route invariably 
chosen by belated passengers. But 
a practised eye would have been able 
to distinguish in the angle of the 
w ill of the Tournelles , various murky 
shadows, whose motions sufficiently 
indicated that they belonged to poor 
devils of mortals, who were at a loss 
how to preserve their natural heat, 
rapidly evolved from them by the 
stationary position to which they 
seemed to have condemned them- 
selves in expectation of some event. 

To the tower sentry, who could not, 
by reason of the obscurity, distin- j 
guish objects on the square, the con- 
versation of the shadows, carried on 
in a low voice, was wholly inaudible ; 
yet the matter of the conversation 
was anything but uninteresting. 

u That mad fellow, Bussy, was 
right,” said one of the shadows; 
u ffis just such another night as we 
were wont to have at Warsaw, when 
King Henry was king of Poland ; 
and, if it should continue, our skins 
will fairly split.” 

u Come, Maugiron, you needn’t 
moan like a woman,” said another 


shadow; u it’s' not very comfortable, 
it is true, but draw your cloak over 
your eyes, and put your hands in your 
pockets, and you ’ll not feel the 
cold.” 

u Faith, Schomberg,” said a third 
shadow, u you take it easily, like a 
German as you are. As for me, my 
lips bleed, and my mustaches |ire 
covered with icicles.” 

u But the hands are the worst,” 
said a fourth shadow. u On my word, 
I would bet I have none left.” 

u Why didn’t you bring your mo- 
ther’s muff with you, poor Quelus ?” 
returned Schomberg. u She would 
have lent it to you, especially if you 
had told her it was to assist in rid- 
ding her of her dear Bussy, whom 
she loves as she loves the plague.” 
u Mon Dieu ! have a little pa- 
tience,” said a fifth voice. “ By and 
by, I’ll be bound, you’ll be complain- 
ing that you are too warm.” 

u May heaven hear you, D’Eper- 
non !” said Maugiron, stamping his 
feet. 

u It wasn’t I who spoke,” said 
D’Epernon ; u it was D’O. I hold my 
tongue, for fear my words should 
freeze.” 

a What were you saying, Maugi- 
ron ?” asked Quelus. 

u D’O was saying,” replied Maugi- 
ron, “ that before long we’d find it 
warm enough, and I made answer ; 
Heaven grant it !” 

u Well, I think your prayer has 
been heard, for I see something below 
there, coming this way, through the 
Rue Saint-Paul.” 

u Wrong. It can’t be our man.” 
u Pray, why?” 

u Because he was directed to take 
a different route.” 

u Would there be anything aston- 
ishing if his suspicions should have 
made him change it ?” 

o 

u You don’t know Bussy ; where 
he said he would pass, he will pass, 
though the devil should be in waiting 
to bar the way.” 

u Meantime,” returned Quelu3, 
u here are two men approaching.” 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


i6 

u Yes, by Jove!” cried two or 
three voices, assentingly. 

u Then, let us charge,” said Schom- 
berg. 

u Ono moment,” said D’Epernon ; 
u we musn’t kill honest citizens, or 
belated midwives. Hold ! they’ve 
stopped.” 

As he said, the two persons who 
Lad attracted the notice of our five 
companions, had stopped, as if un- 
decided, at the extremity of the Rue 
St. Paul, where it enters St. An- 
toine. 

u Ho! ho!” said Quelus, u can 
they have seen us ?” 

u Nonsense! we can scarcely see 
ourselves.” 

u You’re right,” returned Quelus. 
u Hold ! They are turning to the 
left ! They have stopped before a 
house ! They’re on the seek ” 
u Yes, yes !” 

* u They seem to want to get in,” 
said Schomberg. u Stop ! Are they 
going to escape from us ?” 

u But it cannot be our man ; he 
was going to the Faubourg St. An - 
toine , and those men, after issuing 
from the Rue St. Paul, have gone 
down the street,” replied Maugiron. 

u As for that,” said Schomberg, 
u how do you know but that the sly 
knave has purposely put us on the 
wrong scent?” 

u It may be,” said Quelus. 

The mere supposition made the 
troop of gentlemen as restive as a 
pack of famished hounds. They left 
their place of concealment, and rush- 
ed with drawn swords on the two men 
who had stopped at the door. 

At the same moment one of the 
men had introduced a key into the 
lock ; the door had yielded, and was 
beginning to open, when the noise 
made by the assailants made the two 
mysterious promenaders turn round. 

u What can that be ?” said the 
more diminutive of the two, to his 
companion. u Can it be that we are 
to be attacked, D’Aurilly?” 

u My lord,” replied he who had 
just opened the door, u it looks very 


like it. Will you name yourself, or 
keep your incognito?” 

u Armed men lying in wait. It is 
a deadly ambush.” 

u Some jealous rival or lawful pos- 
sessor. I told my lord that the lady 
was too beautiful not to be closely 
watched.” 

u Let us get in, quick, D’Aurilly. 
We shall stand a siege better inside 
than outside the door.” 

u Yes, my lord, when there are no 
enemies in the garrison ; but who can 
tell—” 

He had no time to finish. The 
young nobles had bounded over the 
space, which was about a hundred 
yards wide, with the rapidity of light- 
ning. Quelus and Maugiron, who 
had followed the line of the wall, 
threw themselves between the door 
and the visitors, in order to cut off 
their retreat, while Schomberg, D’O, 
and D’Epernon, were making ready 
to attack them in front. 

u Down with them ! Down with 
them!” cried Quelus, as usual the 
most forward of the five. 

Suddenly, he who had been called 
my lord, and who had been asked by 
his companion if he would keep his 
incognito, turned toward Quelus, ad- 
vanced a step forward, and crossing 
his arms on bis breast, haughtily ad- 
dressed him : 

u d believe you said, c Down with 
him,’ — speaking of a son of France, 
Monsieur de Quelus,” said he, with a 
hollow voice, and with a sinister 
look. 

Quelus reeled backward, his eyes 
haggard, shaking in every limb. 

u My lord, the Duke of Anjou !” 
he exclaimed. 

u My lord, the Duke of Anjou !” 
repeated his companions. 

u Well, gentlemen,” returned 
Francis, with a look that struck ter- 
ror to their hearts, u is your cry still : 
4 Down with them !’ ” 

u My lord,” stammered D’PJpornon, 
u we were not in earnest ; pardon us.” 
u My lord,” added D’O, u we could 
not dream of meeting your Plighness 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


17 


in this quarter of the city, at this 
hour of the night.” 

u Not in earnest !” returned Fran- 
cis, without doing D’O the honor of 
replying to him. u Your amusements 
are rather peculiar, Monsieur d’Eper- 
non. Will you be so good as to in- 
form me, since you did not expect to 
meet me, whom you did expect to 
meet ?” 

u My lord,” said Schomberg, res- 
pectfully, u we saw Saint-Luc leave 
the Hotel Montmorency and come 
this way. It seemed strange to us : 
so we wanted to find out what ur- 
gent business could take a husband 
away from his wife on his wedding 
night.” 

The excuse was plausible, for in 
all probability the Duke of Anjou 
would learn on the morrow that Saint- 
Luc had not slept at the Hotel Mont- 
morency, and the fact would bear 
Schomberg out. 

u Monsieur de Saint-Luc! You 
took me for Monsieur de Saint-Luc. 
gentlemen ?” 

u Yes, my lord,” replied in chorus 
the five companions. 

“ Since when can we be mistaken 
for each other ?” asked the Duke of 
Anjou. u Monsieur de Saint-Luc is 
a head taller than I am.” 

“ True, my lord,” said Quelus, 
u but he is exactly of the size of 
Monsieur D’Aurilly, who bears you 
company.” 

u Besides, the night is very dark, 
my lord,” added Maugiron. 

u And then, seeing a man put a 
key in the lock, we took him to be 
the principal,” faltered D’O. 

u In fine,” said Quelus, u my lord 
cannot for a moment suppose that we 
had any bad design against him, not 
even that of interrupting his amuse- 
ments.” 

Pending this dialogue, and while 
listening to the answers, more or less 
satisfactory, suggested by fear and as- 
tonishment, Francis had, by a skilful 
manoeuvre, withdrawn from the thres- 
hold of the door, and followed step 
by step by D’Aurilly, his lute-player, 

2 


and the usual companion of his noc- 
turnal excursions, he found himself 
j before its close, at such a distance 
, from the spot where he had been as- 
sailed, that it could not again be 
| easily detected by the new comers. 

u My amusements !” returned he, 

: tartly. u What makes you think 
that I am here for my amusement ?” 
u Oh ! my lord, for whatever pur- 
pose you may be here,” replied Que- 
lus, u pardon our interruption, and 
permit us to withdraw.” 

u Be it so ! Good-bye, gentle 
men.” 

u My lord,” added D’Epernon, 
“ our discretion, which is well known 
to your highness — ” 

The Duke of Anjou, who had al- 
ready turned to depart, stopped short 
and frowned. 

u Your discretion, Monsieur de 
Nogaret — who asked for it ?” 

u My lord, we thought that youi 
highness alone, at this hour, and fol- 
lowed by your confidant — ” 

u You are mistaken. I shall now 
tell you what you must think, and 
what it is my pleasure you should 
think.” 

The five gentlemen listened in re- 
spectful silence. 

u I was on my way,” resumed the 
duke, in a slow tone of voice, as 
though to engrave his words in the 
memory of his hearers; U I was on 
my way to consult the Jew, Manasses, 
who is a reader of futurity. He lives, 
you know, in the Rue de la Tour - 
nelle. In passing, D’Aurilly saw you, 
and took you for archers of the guard 
on their rounds. Then,” added he, 
with a species of gaiety frightful to 
those who knew the real character of 
the prince, u like those who would 
consult the black art, we glided along 
the walls, eclipsing ourselves in the 
doorways, to escape if possible, your 
dreaded scrutiny.” 

While thus speaking, the prince 
had imperceptibly returned to the 
Rue Saint-Paul, where he should be 
within hearing of the sentry on the 
Bastille, in case of violence, from the 


18 


DIANA OF MERIDORj OR, 


apprehension of which the respectful 
excuses of the mignons of Henry III. 
did not entirely relieve him, knowing 
as he did the dark and inveterate 
hatred entertained toward him by his 
brother. 

u And now that you know what 
you have to believe, and, mark me, 
what you have to say,” resumed 
Francis, u good-bye, gentlemen, 
good-bye.” 

The nobles bowed and took leave 
of the prince, who turned round seve- 
ral times to follow them with his eyes, 
while he himself kept advancing in 
an opposite direction. 

“ My lord,” said D’Aurilly, “ I 
could swear that those gentry had 
some evil design. It is just midnight ; 
we are, as they remarked, in a lone- 
some quarter ; let us return home, my 
lord.” 

u No,” said the prince, stopping 
him. u On the contrary, let us take 
advantage of their retreat.” 

u Your highness is mistaken,” said 
D’Aurilly. u The fact is they have 
made no retreat ; they have returned, 
as your Highness may yourself see, to 
the place where they were concealed. 
Look over, my lord, toward that nook 
at the angle of the Hotel des Tour- 
nelles ?” 

Francis looked. D’Aurilly had 
told him the exact truth. The five 
gentlemen had in fact resumed their 
position, and it became manifest that 
they had in contemplation some pur- 
pose interrupted by the prince’s arri- 
val ; perhaps they were waiting to 
watch the motions of the prince and 
his companion, and to assure them- 
selves if they were really going to call 
on the Jew, Manasses. 

u Well! my lord,” inquired D’Au- 
rilly, u what do you decide ? I will 
act as your Highness may order, but 
I am of opinion that it will be impru- 
dent to remain here.” 

u Mordieu /” cried the prince, 
u and yet it is vexatious to be com- 
pelled to abandon my pursuit.” 
u I know it us, my lord, but it may 
be resumed. I have already told your » 


Highness that I have picked up some 
information. The house is let for 
one year. We know that the lady 
lodges on the first story : we have an 
understanding with her attendant, 
and a key that opens her door. With 
these advantages, we can wait.” 
u You are sure the door yielded ?” 
u Perfectly sure ; the third key 1 
tried opened it.” 

u By-the-bye, did you shut it 
again ?” 


“ The door ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Certainly, my lord.” 

With whatever accent of truth 
D’Aurilly may have said this, we 
must declare that he was less certain 
of having shut the door than of having 
opened it. However, the assurance 
of his manner left no more doubt on 
the prince’s mind of the certainty of 
the second performance than of the 
first. 

u But,” resumed the prince, u I 
should not be sorry to know by my- 
self—” 


u What they are about there, my 
lord ? I can tell you without fear of 
being mistaken. They are lying in 
wait for some enemy. Let us return 
home. Your Highness has enemies: 
who knows what they might at- 
tempt ?” 

u Well! let us depart — I consent 
— but we will return.” 

“ Not to-night, at least, my lord. 
I trust that your Highness will under- 
stand my fears ; I see danger every- 
where, and it is certainly no wonder 
I should be alarmed when I bear com- 
pany to the first prince of the blood 
— the heir to the crown which it is 
the interest of so many he should not 
inherit.” 

These last words made such an im- 
pression on Francis, that he immedi- 
ately determined on a retreat ; never- 
theless, it was not without inwardly 
cursing his ill-fortune in meeting with 
the mignons , on whom he promised 
himself to be revenged at a more suit- 
able time and place. 

u Be it so,” said he ; u weTl return 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


19 


to the hotel : there we shall find De 
Bussy, who must by this time have 
returned from those confounded nup- 
tials. I only hope he has picked a 
quarrel, and either has killed, or is 
to kill to-morrow, some one of those 
detested mignons 

u Yes, my lord, we may put our 
trust in Bussy. I ask for nothing 
better ; and I have, like your High- 
ness, the greatest confidence in him.” 
With these words, they took their 
departure. 

They had scarcely turned the cor- 
ner of the Rue de Jouy , when the five 
companions saw a man on horseback 
make his appearance at the head of 
the Rue Tison . The dry and heavy 
tramp of the horse resounded from 
the hard and frosty ground, and 
struggling through the murky night, 
a feeble ray of the moon, glimmering 
through the snow-laden atmosphere, 
silvered the white feather of the 
rider’s cap. He held his steed in 
check, confining him to a walk ; and 
this precaution, to which the noble 
animal was not accustomed, despite 
the cold, covered his coat with foam. 

u This time,” said Quelus, u it is 
he !” 

u Impossible!” said Maugiron. 

“ Why so?” 

u Because he is alone, and we left 
Bussv with Livarot, D’Entragues, and 
Ribeirac : they would never have let 
him come alone.” 

u ’Tis he, nevertheless, ’tis he,” 
said D’Epernon. u See ! you can 
hear his hum ! clear and sonorous. 
See his insolent carriage ! Ho is 
really alone.” 

u Then, it’s a trap,” said D’O. 
u Trap or no trap,” said Schom- 
berg, u he’s our man ; and so, to 
your swords — to your swords !” 

It was, in fact, De Bussy, who was 
carelessly approaching from the Rue 
Saint- Antoine, and who had punctu- 
ally followed the itinerary traced for 
him by Quelus ; he had, as has been 
seen, received a salutary admonition 
from Saint-Luc, and although natu- 
rally startled by the intimation it 


conveyed, he had resisted the en- 
treaties of his friends and taken leave 
of them at the gate of the Hotel Mont 
morency. 

It was just such a bravado as our 
valorous colonel liked. He said of 
himself : I am but a plain gentleman, 
but I carry in my breast the heart of 
an emperor ; and, when I read in 
Plutarch’s lives the exploits of the 
ancient Romans, there is not one of 
them that I do not feel able to ac- 
complish. 

Besides, Bussy considered that per- 
haps Saint-Luc, whom he did not gen- 
erally rank among his friends, and for 
whose unexpected interest in his safe- 
ty he was in fact indebted to the 
perplexed position in which he, Saint- 
Luc, was placed, had merely warned 
him, to induce him to render himself 
ridiculous in the eyes of his enemies, 
granting that he had enemies "lying 
in wait for him. Now, Bussy dread- 
ed ridicule more than he did danger. 
He had, in the estimation even of his 
very enemies, a reputation for cour- 
age, to sustain which, he would some- 
times attempt the maddest adventures. 
Thus, like one of Plutarch’s heroes, 
he had dismissed his three compa- 
nions, who would have formed an es- 
cort with which he might have braved 
a squadron ; and alone, with his 
arms wrapped in his cloak, without 
other weapons than his sword and 
dagger, he went on his way to the 
house where was waiting for him, not 
a mistress as might be imagined, but 
a letter, which, on the same day in 
every month, the Queen of Navarre 
was in the habit of sending him, in 
testimony of their good friendship, 
and which the brave and noble gen- 
tleman, agreeably to his promise to 
Queen Margot — a promise he had not 
failed once in keeping — invariably 
took up himself, in order that the 
secret of their communications might 
not be betrayed by the employment 
of a messenger. 

He had journeyed in safety from 
the Rue * des Grands Augustins to the 
Rue St. Antoine , when on reaching the 


20 


DIANA OF MERIDOR , OR, 


head of the Hue St. Catherine, his 
vigilant, piercing, and practised eye 
distinguished through the darkness, 
the human forms which had escaped 
the notice of the unsuspecting Duke 
of Anjou. Besides, the approach of 
apprehended danger awakens in a 
truly brave heart a high and exalted 
feeling, which gives perfection to the 
faculties of mind and sense. 

Bussy counted the dark shadows 
on the grey wall. 

u Three, four, five,” said he, 
u without counting the servants who 
are probably concealed in some other 
nook, ready to rush forward at their 
masters 5 bidding. I am not held 
lightly, it would seem. The devil ! 
there’ll be work enough for one man. 
Here goes ! Honest Saint-Luc did 
not deceive me, and though he should 
be the first to run me through in the 
fray, I’ll find time to say — thank you 
for your warning, comrade.” 

While making these reflections, he 
kept still advancing ; only he gave 
his right arm free play under his 
cloak, the clasp of which his left 
hand hand quietly loosened. 

It was just then that Schomberg 
cried, To your swords /” and that 
on this cry, repeated by his four com- 
panions, they all rushed forward. 

u So, ho ! gentlemen,” said Bussy, 
in his shrill but quiet voice, u you 
would kill poor Bussy ! Is he, then, a 
wild beast ? Is he the wild boar you 
were to hunt ? Well ! gentlemen, the 
boar will lay some of you low, take 
my word for it, and you know I am a 
man of my word.” 

u So be it,” said Schomberg : 
<4 but you are not the less an ill-bred 
puppy, Seigneur Bussy D’Amboise, 
to sit there on your horse, while we are 
listening to you on foot.” 

Saying these words, the young no- 
ble threw aside his cloak, exhibiting 
his right arm, which being arrayed in 
white satin, shone like silver by the 
light of the moon. Bussy understood 
that this was a mere demonstration 
that Schomberg Wftj about to follow 
up his threat. 


Accordingly he was going to an- 
swer it after the fashion with which 
Bussy was most familiar, when on 
striking spurs into his horse, he felt 
the animal give way and sink under 
him. Schomberg, with an expertness 
which was peculiar to him, and of 
which he had given many proofs in 
the numerous encounters in which, 
young as he was, he had already been 
engaged, had thrown a species of knife, 
with a broad blade heavier than the 
handle ; and the weapon, after ham- 
stringing the animal, had remained 
sticking in the wound, like a cleaver 
in an oak plank. 

The horse gave one hollow groan, 
and fell shivering on his knees. 

Bussy, always ready for every event, 
was on his legs in an instant, sword 
in hand. 

u Wretch,” he exclaimed, “lie 
was my favorite horse; you shall pay 
for that.” 

And as Schomberg advanced car- 
ried away by his courage, and calculat- 
ing erroneously the range of the sword 
which Bussy grasped close to his per- 
son, just as one is apt to miscalculate 
the range of the tooth of a snake 
which lies supine in spiral folds, that 
arm and sword were extended, and 
the next instant Schomberg’s thigh 
was laid open. 

Schomberg could not refrain from 
crying out. 

u Well !” cried Bussy, u do I keep 
my word ? One down already ! It 
was Bussy ’s arm, and not his poor 
horse’s ham, you should have cut, you 
clumsy fellow.” 

And in the twinkling of an eye, 
while Schomberg was binding up his 
wound with a handkerchief, Bussy 
stood facing his four other assailants, 
with his long sword, disdaining to give 
the alarm, for to have called for help 
would have been unworthy the name 
of Bussy : only folding his cloak round 
his left arm, so as to form a sort of 
buckler in parrying, he broke, not in- 
tending to fly, but to reach a wall 
against which he could back himself, 
so as to be sure against any attack 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


21 


from behind ; making ten thrusts in 
a jninute, and feeling at times the 
yielding resistance of the flesh which 
indicated that the blows have told. 
Once his foot slipped, and he mecha- 
nically looked down. That instant, 
Quelus made a pass at his side. 

“Hit!” cried Quelus. 

“Yes, in my doublet,” returned 
Bussy, who would not even acknow- 
ledge a wound. 

Rushing on Quelus, he crossed 
his sword with such strength of arm, 
that he sent it ten yards out of the 
mignon’s hand. But he had no time 
to pursue his victory, for on the in- 
stant he was attacked with fresh fury 
by D’O and D’Epernon, and Maugi- 
ron. Schomberg had bound up his 
wound. Quelus had picked up his 
sword. He saw that he ran the risk 
of being surrounded, and that all 
would be lost unless he could reach 
the wall. 

Bussy made one spring backward, 
which placed three paces between him 
and his assailants ; but four swords 
60on came up with him, and yet it 
was too late, for Bussy, with another 
effort, just reached the wall. Here 
he paused like an Achilles, or a Ro- 
land, and smiled at the hurricane of 
blows that rattled about his ears. 

Suddenly, he felt a moisture on his 
forehead, and a mist passed before his 
eyes. 

He had forgotten his wound, and 
the symptoms of faintness which he 
then experienced, reminded him of 
it. 


“ Ah ! you are fainting,” said Que- 
lus. 

“ Look !” said Bussy, “ you may 
judge if I am fainting.” And with 
the word, he struck him in the 
temple with the pommel of his sword. 
Quelus staggered and fell under the 
blow of that iron arm. 

Excited beyond bounds, and fu- 
rious as the boar that has been held 
at bay by dogs, with one loud and 
terrible shout, he sprang forward. 
D’O and D’Epernon fell back. Mau- 
giron had picked up Quelus, and was 


busy in trying to revive him. Bussy 
broke the sword of the latter with his 
foot, and slashed with a cut and 
thrust D’Epcrnon’s fore-arm. F or an 
instant, Bussy was the victor ; but 
Quelus came to himself, and Schom- 
berg, wounded as he was, re-entered 
the lists. Again, four blades glitter- 
ed before his eyes. Bussy felt him- 
self lost a second time, he collected 
all his strength to effect a retreat, and 
fell back, step by step, toward the 
wall. The icy moisture on his brow, 
the buzzing noise in his ears, and the 
bloody film which encurtained his 
eyes, all informed him that he was 
getting fatally weaker and weaker. 
His sword no longer obeyed his reso- 
lute will. Bussy felt for the wall 
with his left hand, and the cold touch 
of the stone did him good ; but to his 
great astonishment, the wall yielded 
It was a door ajar. Hope now re- 
turned, and Bussy recovered all his 
strength for this supremely critical 
moment. During a second of time, 
his passes were delivered with such 
rapidity that the weapons of his as-„ 
sailants were either struck aside or 
lowered before him. There was a 
pause ; Bussy slipped behind th 
door, and with one push of his shoul 
der shut it after him. The bolt rang 

# O 

in the staple. All was over. Bussy 
was out of danger ; Bussy was victor, 
for he was saved from death. 

Recovering from his bewilderment, 
he could see, through the narrow grat- 
ing of the wicket, the pale faces of his 
enemies. He heard the impotent and 
furious blows of their swords against 
the planks of the door ; . he heard 
their oaths and execrations ; and then 
it seemed to him as if the ground 
were sinking under him, as if the wall 
were crumbling. He advanced a few 
steps and found himself in a yard, 
reeled and fell on the steps of a stair- 
case. 

Consciousness was rapidly depart- 
ing, and it seemed to him as though 
he were descending into the silence 
and darkness of the tomb. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


22 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO 

DISTINGUISH BETWEEN A DREAM 

AND REALITY. 

Bussy had time, before falling, to in- 
troduce bis handkerchief under his 
shirt, and to buckle his sword-belt 
over it, making a sort of bandage for 
the wound, from which his blood was 
escaping like a jet of flame ; but, be- 
fore this could be accomplished, he 
already had lost so much blood as to 
occasion the swoon, under which, as 
we have seen, he had to succumb. 

Now, whether it was that the 
brain being over-excited by anger 
and suffering, consciousness was pre- 
served notwithstanding the swoon, 
or that the swoon gave way to a fever, 
itself succeeded by a second swoon, 
here is what Bussy saw, or thought he 
saw, during that hour of dreams or 
of reality — during that instant of twi- 
light intervening between the shades 
of two nights. 

He found himself in a room with 
furniture of carved wood, figured 
tapestry, and a painted ceiling. The 
figures on the tapestry, in all possi- 
ble attitudes, bearing flowers and 
grasping swords, seemed to be as- 
cending, by some mysterious contri- 
vance, from the walls, where they 
were all in busy motion, to the ceil- 
ing. Between the two windows was 
placed a portrait of a lady, brilliant 
with dazzling light, only it seemed to 
Bussy that the frame of the portrait 
was nothing but a door-casing. Bus- 
sy, motionless, fixed on his bed, and 
deprived of all his faculties except 
sight, gazed at the various figures 
with a dull and inert eye, admiring 
the insipid smiles of the flower-car- 
riers and the grotesque wrath of the 
swordsmen. Were those figures old 
acquaintances, or did he see them now 
for the first time ? In his lethargic 
state, that was a question he was 
unable to answer. 

Suddenly the figure of the portrait 
stepped out from her frame, and a 


lovely being, robed in angelic white, 
with hair falling over her shoulders, 
with eyes black as jet, with long sSft 
eye-lashes, and with a complexion so 
transparent that he could see the cir- 
culating blood that tinged it rose- 
red, advanced toward him. The 
figure was so surpassingly beautiful, 
her whole aspect so alluring, that 
Bussy made a violent effort to rise 
and throw himself at her feet. But 
he seemed to be fastened to his bed 
by such bonds as fasten the body in 
the tomb, when the pure spirit, dis- 
daining earth, takes its flight to hea- 
ven. 

He examined the couch on which 
he was lying, and it seemed to him 
that it was a magnificent bedstead of 
the time of Francis I., with curtains 
of white damask worked in gold. 

The fair lady’s presence (Few away 
Bussy’s attention from the figures on 
the wall and ceiling. The figure of 
the portrait was everything to him, 
and he endeavored to discover what 
remained behind on the canvass she 
had occupied. But a mist, impene- 
trable to his eyes, floated before the 
frame, and hid it from his sight. 
Concentrating his gaze on the myste- 
rious apparition, he commenced ad- 
dressing her in a strain of compli 
mentary verse, improvised for the 
occasion. 

But the figure just then abruptly 
disappeared ; an opaque body inter- 
vened between her and Bussv, and 
advanced with a heavy step, stretch- 
ing out its long arms in something 
like the fashion of the principal per- 
former in the game of blind-man’s-buff. 

Bussy was getting very angry ; in 
fact, he worked himself into such a 
rage with the ill-timed visitor, that, 
had he possessed freedom of motion, 
he would have fallen on it directly ; 
it is but just to say that, even as it 
was, he tried to do so ; but the thing 
was imposssible. 

As he was vainly trying to emanci- 
pate himself, the new comer spoke : 

u Well !” "asked he, u have I ar- 
rived at last ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATJ. 


23 


u Yes, master,” answered a sweet 
voice, that thrilled through every 
fibre of Bussy’s heart ; u and you 
may now remove your bandage.” 

Bussy made an effort to see if the 
possessor of the sweet voice was the 
same as the figure in the portrait ; 
but the attempt was vain. He 
only saw before him the graceful 
countenance of a young man, who, in 
compliance with the speaker’s invita- 
tion, had just removed the bandage 
from his eyes, and was casting round 
the room looks of extreme bewilder- 
ment. 

u To the devil with the man !” 
thought Bussy. 

He endeavored to express his 
thought by a sign, but neither hand 
nor head would move. 

“ Oh ! I understand now,” said 
the young man, approaching the bed. 
u You are wounded, are you not, my 
dear sir ? Let us see what we can do 
for you.” 

Bussy would have answered, but he 
felt it to be impossible. His eyes 
swam in an icy mist, and the tip ends 
of his fingers pricked him as though 
they were pierced through with a mul- 
titude of pins. 

u Is the wound mortal ?” asked 
the same sweet voice which he had 
already heard, in a tone of painful 
interest, which brought tears to Bus- 
sy’s eyes, and which he was then con- 
vinced belonged to the figure of the 
portrait. 

u I cannot tell yet ; but I shall 
know in a moment,” replied the 
young man, u meanwhile, he is in- 
sensible.” 

This was all that Bussy could un- 
derstand. It seemed to him that he 
heard the rustling of a gown and the 
sound of departing foot-steps. 
Thereafter, he thought he felt some- 
thing like a red-hot iron drawn across 
his side, and then, whatever con- 
sciousness he had retained up to that 
moment, altogether left him. 

At a subsequent period, Bussy 
found it impossible to fix the duration 
of his swoon. 


When he recovered, a cold wind 
was sweeping over his face, and 
harsh discordant voices were ringing 
in his ears ; he opened his eyes to see 
if the figures on the tapestry were 
quarrelling with thos6 on the ceiling. 
But tapestry there was none, neither 
was there ceiling, and, as for the por- 
trait, it also had vanished. On his 
right stood a man with a white apron, 
stained with blood, tucked up to his 
girdle ; while, on his left, a friar of 
St. Augustin’s, from the Rue du 
Temple , was supporting his head. 
Fronting him was an old woman 
mumbling prayers. 

Bussy’s wandering eye was speedily 
fixed on a mass of stones which rose 
up before him, and on taking the 
measure of their height, he recog- 
nized the Temple, with its keep 
flanked with walls and towers, and 
above, the grey cold firmament, light- 
ly gilded by the rising sun. 

Bussy was purely and simply in the 
street, or rather, on the bank of a 
moat, and that moat was the moat of 
the Temple. 

u Ah ! thank you,” said he u good 
people, for your kindness in bringing 
me hither. I wanted air, but it migh* 
have been given to me by opening the 
windows ; and I should be better off 
on my damask couch, of white and 
gold, than on the naked ground. It 
matters not ; there are in my pocket, 
unless you have already prudently 
helped yourselves, some twenty gold- 
en crowns *, take them, good people, 
take them.” 

u But, sir,” said the butcher, u it 
is not we ^rho had the trouble of 
bringing you hither. Here you are, 
and here we found you at day-break.” 
u The deuce !” returned Bussy. 
u And the young doctor, was he here ?” 
The bystanders looked at each 
other. 

u The fever still lingers,” said the 
Augustin friar, shaking his head. 
Then addressing himself to the pa- 
tient, he added : u My son, you 
would do well to confess yourself!” 
Bussy was bewildered. 


24 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR t 


u There was no doctor, my dear 
young man,” said the old woman, 
u you were here all alone, forsaken, 
and as cold as death. See there, 
there has a little snow fallen, and the 
spot on which you lay is still bare.” 
Bussy cast a look at his aching 
side, and, recollecting that he had 
been wounded, slipped his hand under 
his doublet and felt his handkerchief 
in the same place, secured over the 
wound by his sword-belt. 

“ This is singular,” said he. 
Meanwhile, the spectators, availing 
themselves of his permission, were 
busily engaged in sharing the con- 
tents of his purse, with sundry excla- 
mations of pity for his condition. 

“ Now,” said he, when they had 
done, “ that you have helped your- 
selves, will you take me home, good 
people ?” 

“ Surely, surely, poor dear young 
man,” said the old crone, u the 
butcher is strong, and then he has 
his horse, you can ride.” 

u Is that true ?” asked Bussy. 
u As true as gospel !” said the 
butcher, u both I and my horse are at 
your service, sir.” 

“ No matter, son,” chimed in the 
friar, u while the butcher is getting 
his horse you had better make your 
confession.” 

u Mordieu /” said Bussy, sitting 
up ; “ I hope the time is not come 
for that yet. So, my good father, 
let them lose no time. I feel cold, 
and should be glad to get home to 
warm myself.” 

u Where is your home ?” 
u The Hotel de Bussy . ” 

“What!” cried the bystanders, 
“ the Hotel de Bussy V* 

(< Yes; why are you so much as- 
tonished at that ?” 

“ And are you one of Monsieur de 
Bussy’s people ?” 

u I am Monsieur de Bussy him- 
self.” 

u Bussy !” cried the crowd. “ The 
Seigneur de Bussy ! Brave Bussy, 
the scourge of the mignons ! Hurrah 
for Bussy !” 


Amid similar exclamations in a 
wounded gentleman was hoisted on 

the shoulders of his new friends, and 

/ 

carried back in triumph to his hotel, 
while the friar went his way, counting 
his share of the twenty golden crowns, 
and muttering to himself : 

o 

“ If that be harebrained Bussy, no 
wonder he would not confess.” 

Once at home, Bussy sent for his 
surgeon in ordinary, who found the 
wound to be of no consequence. 

u Tell me,” asked Bussy; “has 
not this wound been dressed already?” 
“ I would not swear that it has 
not,” said the leech, “ although it 
seems fresh and recent.” 

“ Was it severe enough to have 
brought on delirium?” returned Bus- 
sy. 

“ Of course it was.” 

“ The deuce!” said Bussy; “ and 
yet that tapestry — the figures bearing 
flowers and swords — the ceiling in 
fresco — the carved bedstead, with its 
drapery of white damask worked in 
gold — the portrait between two win- 
dows— the lovely blonde with black 
eyes — the leech who played at blind 
man’s-buff — can all these be but a 
dream ? Can it be that the only real 
occurrence was my fight with the mi- 
gnons ? And then let me see where 
I fought — I have it — It was near the 
Place de la Bastille , adjoining the 
Rue St. Paul — I had backed against 
a wall — the wall was a door, and 
the door, fortunately, turned on its 
hinges — I shut it after me with some 
difficulty, and found myself in an 
alley — And now, I can recollect no- 
thing of what happened until I came 
to myself — But, am I really come to 
myself, or am I dreaming ? I must 
find out — And my horse by-the-bye 
— My horse must have been found 
dead — Doctor, be so good as to call 
some one.” 

The doctor called a valet. 

Bussy inquired; and learned that 
his horse, bleeding and mutilated, 
had dragged himself to the gate of 
the hotel, where he was found neigh- 
ing at daybreak. The alarm having 


li 


YDY OF MONSOREAU. 


25 


been instantly gi\ ^.il bis people, 
who adored their master, scattered 
themselves in different directions in 
search of him, and the major part of 
them had not yet returned. 

“ So,” saidBussy, u the only thing 
that remains a dream is the portrait 
and its accessories. Surely it must 
have been a dream ! What probabi- 
lity is there of a portrait walking out 
of its frame to hold a conversation 
with a blind-folded doctor ? I must 
be mad !” 

u And yet, when I think of it, it 
was a charming portrait. It had — ” 

Bussy’s imagination reverted to the 
portrait, and as he called up in suc- 
cession its various details, a thrill of 
that passion which reanimates the 
heart, passed like velvet over his 
burning breast. 

u Can it be all a dream, and only 
a dream?” cried Bussy, while the 
doctor was dressing his wound. 
u Mordieu! it is impossible; people 
don’t dream such things. Let me 
see.” 

Bussy set about repeating for the 
Hundredth time : 

a I was at the ball ; Saint-Luc 
warned me of danger in the neighbor- 
hood of the Bastille — I was with An- 
traguet, Livarot, and Ribeirac — I 
separated from them — I took my way 
by the quay and the Grand Chatelet 
— Close to the Hotel des Tournelles, 
I saw people lying in wait for me — 
They fell on me — We fought hard — I 
made my escape into an alley ; I felt 
sick, and then — Ah ! there’s the rub 
— I can make out nothing after that 
— fever, delirium, dreams — 

u Next,” added he with a sigh, 
u I found myself on the sward of the 
Temple moat, where a St. Augustin 
friar wanted to confess me. 

u I am determined to clear all this 
up,” resumed Bussy, after a moment 
of silent effort to collect in order the 
scattered fragments floating through 
his memory. u Doctor, must I keep 
my room for a fortnight for this 
scratch, as I had to do for the last ?” 


u That depends,” replied the chi* 
rurgeon. u You are unable to walk.” 
u On the contrary,” said Bussy, 
u it seems to me as if I had quicksil- 
ver in my legs.” 

u Walk round the room.” 

Bussy jumped from his bed, and 
proved the truth of his assertion by 
going all round the room with consi- 
derable vivacity. 

u All will go well,” returned the 
physician, u provided you keep out 
of the saddle, and do not make thirty 
miles the first day you get into it.” 
u You are the prince of doctors,” 
cried Bussy ; u and yet, I saw another 
last night — Yes, I am sure I saw him 
— I have his features stamped on my 
memory, and if ever I meet him 
again, I shall know him, I’ll answer 
for it.” 

u My dear sir,” said the leech, 
u it will be of no use to look for your 
doctor ; fever always follows sword 
wounds, and you ought to know as 
much, for this is your twelfth.” 
u Oh , man Dieu /” suddenly ex- 
claimed Bussy, struck with a new 
idea, for his mind was constantly 
harping on the mystery of the pre- 
ceding night, u perhaps my dream 
commenced on the other side of the 
door, instead of on this side — There 
may have been no more alley and 
staircase than portrait and bedstead 
with white damask worked in gold — 
The ruffians who assailed me, taking 
me for dead, may have cast me them- 
selves on the Temple moat, to put 
people on the wrong scent — Then, of 
course I must have dreamed all the 
rest — I swear by all that’s sacred that 
if it be by them and through them 
that I have had that dream, which 
now agitates me and preys on my 
vitals, I’ll cut the throats of every 
man of them.” 

u My dear sir,” said the leech, 
u if you would be cured promptly, 
you must keep yourself quiet.” 
u Save and except honest Saint 
Luc,” continued Bussy, without heed- 
ing the leech. As for him, it’s an- 


26 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


otner matter ; he behaved toward me 
like a friend. He must, therefore, 
have my first visit.” 

u But not before five o’clock this 
afternoon,” said the leech. 

u Agreed,” said Bussy ; u but I 
can assure you that it will not be 
going out and seeing the world which 
will delay my cure : quite the re- 
verse.” 

u Well, perhaps so,” said the 
leech, u for you are in all things a 
singular patient ; act as you see fit, 
my lord ; I only recommend you one 
thing — not to get another wound be- 
fore this one is cured.” 

Bussy promised the leech to do 
what he could to avoid it, and having 
dressed and ordered his litter, had 
himself carried to the Hotel Mont- 
morency. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW MADEMOISELLE DE BRISSAC, OTH- 
ERWISE CALLED MADAME DE SAINT- 
LUC, PASSED HER WEDDING NIGHT. 


He was a noble and valiant gentle- 
man, Louis de Clermont, more com- 
monly known by the name of Bussy 
d’Amboise, and is ranked by Bran- 
tome, who was his cousin, among the 


greatest captains of the sixteenth 
century, although he was scarcely 
thirty years of age when he died. No 
man had for a long period of time 
equally distinguished himself in the 
career of victory. Kings and princes 
sought his friendship. Queens and 
princesses bestowed on him their 
sweetest smiles. Bussy had succeed- 
ed La Mole in the affections of the 
Queen of Navarre ; and that tender- 
hearted lady, after the death of the 
favorite whose history we have previ- 
ously written, feeling, doubtless, the 
want of consolation, did so many mad 
tilings in Bussy 7 s behalf, that her 
husband, Henry, who rarely meddled 
with his wife’s affairs or diversions, 
at last took umbrage. As for Duke 
Francis, he would never have par- 


doned De Bussy for having won his 
sister’s regard, if that regard had not 
secured him to his interests. Thus, 
a second time did the duke sacrifice 
his passion to the hollow and irreso- 
lute ambition which, throughout his 
wdiole life, embittered every hour, and 
at last was attended with no result. 

But, in the midst of his successes 
in war, in ambition, and in gallantry, 
Bussy had remained a man inaccessi- 
ble to every species of weakness ; for 
he had never known what it was to 
fear, and at this period of our story 
at least, he had not known what it 
was to love. The truly imperial 
heart which beat in his knightly 
breast, as he said himself, was pure 
and untouched, like the diamond as 
yet unhandled by the lapidary, and 
still shining in its native lustre. All 
his thoughts were high, and all the 
acts of his life free from taint. He 
held himself worthy of a crown, and, 
in reality, was a man superior to any 
dignity to which he could have at- 
tained. 

Henry III. had made him offers of 
friendship, which Bussy had refused, 
saying that kings’ friends were their 
valets, and sometimes still worse ; 
and that consequently it was a condi- 
tion in life that would not suit him. 
Henry silently put up with an affront 
which was aggravated by the choice 
Bussv made of Duke Francis for his 
master. But the duke was Bussy ’s 
master, as the keeper is the master 
of his lion. He waits on the lion, 
and feeds him for fear the lion should 
eat him. Such was the Bussy whom 
Francis made use of to fight his per- 
sonal quarrels. Bussy knew his posi- 
tion, but had his reasons for enduring 
it. 

He had formed for himself a theory, 
resembling somewhat the motto of the 
Duke of Rohan, who said: u King, 
I cannot, prince, I deign not, Rohan 
I am.” — So Bussy said — u I cannot 
be King of France, but the Duke of 
Anjou can, and 1 can be King of the 
Duke of Anjou.” 

And in fact he was so. 


A.DY OF MONSORE AIJ. 


27 


When Saint-L 

f Bus- 

sy’s litter enter t 

gate, 

they hastened to in. 

r de 

Brissac. 


u Is Monsieur dt 

< at 

home ?” asked Bussy 

drew 


aside the curtain. 

u No, sir,” answered the porter. 
u Where shall we find him ?” 
u I don’t know,” replied the wor- 
tliy servitor. u We are all anxious 
and alarmed, here. Monsieur de 
Saint-Luc did not return home last 
night, nor has he returned yet.” 
a Bah!” said Bussy, greatly sur- 
prised. 

u The fact is precisely as I have 
the honor of stating.” 

u But, Madame de Saint-Luc ?” 
u Oh ! Madame de Saint-Luc, that 
is another thing.” 
u Is she at home r” 

“ Yes.” 

u Inform Madame de Saint-Luc 
that I am desirous of paying my res- 
pects to her.” 

In five minutes Bussy was answered 
that Madame de Saint-Luc would re- 
ceive him with the greatest pleasure. 

Bussy alighted from his velvet 
cushion, and ascended the grand stair- 
case. Joan de Cosse stood awaiting 
the coming of the young noble in the 
middle of the saloon of honor. She 
was very pale, and her hair, black as 
the raven’s wing, gave her paleness 
the appearance of discolored ivory ; 
her eyes were inflamed by painful 
watching, and the silvered tnlce of 
recent tears might have been marked 
an her cheek. On witnessing such 
evidences of suffering, Bussy, who had 
smiled in the first instance at that 
paleness, and who had meditated an 
elaborate compliment to those veiled 
eyes, started back, and arrested his 
gallantry on seeing such evidences of 
real suffering. 

u You are welcome, Monsieur de 
Bussy,” said the young wife, u not- 
withstanding the alarm with which 
your appearance here inspires me.” 
u What can you mean, Madame,” 
asked Bussy, u and how can my ap- 


pearance prognosticate misfortune of 
any kind ?” 

u Oh ! sir, there was a meeting 
last night between you and Monsieur 
de Saint-Luc — was there not ?” 
u Between me and Monsieur de 
Saint-Luc ?” repeated Bussy, in great 
astonishment. 

u Yes. He got rid of me to speak 
to you — you are of the Duke of An- 
jou’s party, he of the King’s — you 
quarrelled. Hide nothing from me, 
Monsieur de Bussy. You must see 
what I suffer. True, he went away 
with the King ; but people seeking 
each other, easily meet. Tell me the 
whole truth ; what ’has happened to 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc ?” 

u Madame,” said Bussy, u all this 
is very surprising. I expected you 
to question me about my wound, in- 
stead of which you seem to think that 
I have wounded Monsieur de Saint- 
Luc.” 

u Monsieur de Saint-Luc has 
wounded you ! Then he has been 
fighting,” cried Joan. u Ah ! you 
see now — ” 

u No, no, Madame • he has not 
fought at all — or least with me ; 
thank heaven ! it is not by worthy 
Saint-Luc’s hand I have been wound- 
ed. Mure than that ; he did every- 
thing in his power to prevent me 
from being wounded at all. But why 
need I say so much ? He must have 
told you himself, that we are now 
bound to each other by the ties of the 
strongest friendship — like Damon and 
Pythias.” 

u He ? How could he have told 
me ? I have not seen him since !” 
u You have not seen him since ? 
Then what your porter told me is • 
really the fact :” 

u What did he tell you ?” 
u That Monsieur de Saint-Luc had 
not made his appearance since eleven 
o’clock last night; and is it then 
possible that you have not seen your 
lord since eleven o’clock last night ?” 
u Alas, no !” 
u But, where can he be ?” 
u 1 am asking that of you ” 


28 


DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


L £ My dear Madame, you must really 
tell me all about it,” said Bussy, 
who guessed what had occurred ; “ it 
is very amusing.” 

The poor lady looked at Bussy with 
the greatest astonishment. 

“ No : it is very affecting, I meant 
to say,” resumed Bussy. “ I have lost 
a great deal of blood, and with it, 
sense and money. Tell me the whole 
story ; tell me, Madame.” 

Joan related all that she knew ; 
that is to say, the commands of Henry 
to Saint-Luc to bear him company ; 
the closing of the Louvre gates, and 
the answer of the officer on guard. 

“ So, so,” said Bussy, “ I under- 
stand.” 

“ How, you understand?” ex- 
claimed Joan. 

“Yes: His Majesty carried off 
Saint-Luc to the Louvre, and once in- 
side the palace, he could not get out.” 
“ And why could not Saint-Luc 
get out ?” 

“ Oh !” said Bussy, embarrassed, 
“ you are asking me to disclose a 
state secret.” 

“ But,” said the young bride, 
“ this morning I went to the Louvre 
rnvself, and my father, too.” 

“ Well!” 

“ The guards told us that they 
knew nothing about Monsieur de 
Saint-Luc, and that he must have 
returned to his own home.” 

“ All the more reason for believing 
that Monsieur de Saint-Luc is still 
in the palace,” said Bussy. 

“ You think so ?” 

“ I am sure of it ; and if you 
would be assured of it yourself” — 

“ How will that be possible ?” 

“ With your own eyes.” 

“ But, can I ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ But even were I to go to the pa- 
lace twenty times, I should have to 
come back with the same answer I 
have already received. For, if he be 
there, what is to prevent me from see- 
ing him ?” 

“ Should you like to be admitted 
to the palace, let me ask you ?” 


“ For what purpose should I desire 
it ?» 

“ To see Saint-Luc.” 

“ But, if he be not there.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! 1 tell you he is there.” 

“ This is singular.” 

“ No, it is royal.” 

“ But can you, yourself, gain ad- 
mittance to the palace ? 

“ Certainly. I am not Saint-Luc’s 
wife.” 

“ You confound me.” 

• “ Come with me then.” 

“ I don’t understand you. You 
say Saint-Luc’s wife could not obtain 
admittance to the Louvre, and yet 
you would take me with you.” 

“Not at all Madame; it is not. 
Saint-Luc’s wife I would take with 
me. A woman ! Oh, no !” 

“ Then you are mocking me — and 
seeing my situation — it is very cruel 
of you to do so.” 

“ No, my dear lady; listen to me. 
You are young — you are tall — you 
have black eyes and a handsome 
figure — you somewhat resemble my 
youngest page — you may have re- 
marked him — the knave who looked 
so well last night in his cloth of gold. 
You understand me now?” 

“Oh! Monsieur de Bussy, what a 
proposal!” said Joan, blushing. 

“ Listen. I can devise no other 
plan. You may do your own pleas- 
ure ; but you say yourself that you 
want to see your Saint-Luc.” 

“ I would give the whole world to 
see him.” 

“ With my assistance you can seet-. 
him for something less.” 

“ Yes— but”— 

“ I have told you hew.” 

“ Well, Monsieur de Bussy, I will 
do as you advise ; will you, therefore, 
let your page know that I have occa- 
sion for one of his dresses, and I will 
send for it in the course of the day.” 

“ By no means,” said Bussy. “ Sc 
soon as I return home, I vill ni} r self 

select one of the new dresses I in- 

% 

tended the knaves to wear at the next 
ball to be given by the Queen-mo- 
ther. I will pick out one that 1 think 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


\ 


29 


will fit you. and send it here. You 
will meet me at an appointed place, 
this evening, in the Rue St. Honore , 
near the Rue des TrouvelleSj for exam- 
ple, and thence’’ — 

44 And thence ?” 

44 Well ! and thence we’ll proceed 
to the Louvre together.” 

Joan laughed, and gave her hand 
to Bussy. 

44 Pardon me,” said she, 44 my sus- 
picions.” 

44 Willing. This adventure will 
make all Europe laugh, and I shall 
remain your debtor.” 

With these words taking leave of 
Joan, he returned to his hotel to pre- 
pare for his masquerade.. 

The same evening, at the hour ap- 
pointed, Bussy and Madame de Saint- 
Luc met at the Barrier e des Serges. 
If the lady had not worn his own 
page’s dress, he would not have known 
her. She was charming in her dis- 
guise. After exchanging a few words, 
both bent their steps to the Louvre. 

At the extremity of the Rue des 
Rosses - Saint - Germain- PAuxerrois, 
they encountered a numerous party, 
occupying the whole breadth of the 
street, and stopping the way. 

Joan was alarmed. The appear- 
ance of torches and arquebuses an- 
nounced the presence of the Duke of 
Anjou. Bussy instantly knew him 
by his piebald horse, and the white 
velvet cloak generally worn by the 
Prince. 

44 Ah !” said Bussy, turning round 
to Joan, 44 you were embarrassed, my 
pretty page, to know how you should 
obtain admittance to the Louvre — 
Well; make yourself easy, now, for 
you shall make a triumphal entry.” 

44 Ho, my lord !” cried Bussy, with 
all the strength of his lungs. 

His voice pierced the air, and above 
all the trampling of the horses, and 
the hum of voices, reached the ears of 
the Prince. # 

The duke turned round. 

4 4 Y ou, Bussy ! ” cried he delighted ; 
44 I thought that you were wounded, 
even unto death, and I was on my 


way to your dwelling, at the Come du 
Cerf , Rue de Grenelle.' >> 

44 Faith, my lord,” answered Bussy, 
without even thanking the prince for 
his attention, 44 if I am not dead, it’s 
no one’s fault but my own. Truly, my 
lord, you thrust pleasant enterprises 
on me yesterday, at Saint-Luc’s ball, 
I found myself in a regular cut-throat 
place. I was the only Angevin 
there, and, on my honor, it’s well I 
came off with a single drop of blood 
in my body, for they have let out the 
best part of it.” 

u S’death ! Bussy; they shall pay 
dear for your blood, and I will hold 
them answerable for every drop you 
have lost.” 

44 Yes , you say so , ” r eturne d Bussy, 
with his customary freedom, 44 and you 
will smile on the first one of the par- 
ty you shall meet with. If when you 
smile you would only show your teeth, 
but you keep them too close for that.” 

44 Well,” replied the prince,” come 
with me to the Louvre, and you shall 
see.” 

44 What shall I see, my lord ?” 

44 You shall see how 1 can talk to 
my brother.” 

44 Hear me, my lord — I will not go to 
the Louvre if I am to meet with a re- 
buff — Such treatment may do for 
princes of the blood and mignons , 
but not for me.” 

44 Make yourself easy, I am deter- 
mined on the matter.” 

44 Will you promise me to obtain 
complete satisfaction?” 

44 I promise that you shall be sat- 
isfied. What — do you still hesi- 

tate ?” 

44 My lord, I know you so well.” 

44 Come, I tell you; this shall be 
a thing talked of for many a day.” 

44 Just what we want,” whispered 
Bussy in the ears of the Countess. 
44 Here will be a battle-royal between 
the loving brothers, and you’ll have 
an opportunity of searching out 
Saint-Luc.” 

44 Well,” returned the duke — 44 do 
you still hesitate, or must I pledge 
you my princely word ?” 


30 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“Oh ! no,” said Bussy — “ it would 
brins; me misfortune. Well : come 
what may, I’ll go, and if I am insulted, 
I shall know how to revenge myself.” 

With these words, Bussy took his 
place near the prince, while the new 
page followed close on his master. 

“No, no,” returned the prince, 
replying to Bussy ’s threat ; “ that 
will not be your affair, my brave 
knight. I will avenge you. Listen,” 
added he, in a whisper — “ I know 
your assassins.” 

“ Bah !” said Bussy, “ has your 
Highness been at the trouble of mak- 
ing them out ?” 

“ I have seen them.” 

“ Where ?” said Bussy, surprised. 

“ Where I had myself a call to 
make — at the Porte St. Honore. I 
met with them, and narrowly escaped 
being killed by them on the spot. 
Little did I imagine that it was you 
they were waiting for, the scoundrels. 
Had I 

“ Well, had you”— 

“ Was that new page of vour’s 
with you ?” asked the prince, leaving 
his threat unfinished. 

“ No, my lord, I was alone ; and 
you, my lord ?” 

“ D’Aurilly was with me ; but why 
were you alone ?” 

“ Because I would preserve the title 
of brave Bussy, which men have 
given me.” 

“ And were you wounded ?” asked 
the Prince, rapidly parrying the blow 
aimed at his own prudential precau- 
tion. 

“ In truth, my lord,” said Bussy, 
“ I wouldn’t give the rascals the satis- 
faction of knowing it, but I got a bad 
hit in the side.” 

“ Oh, the villains ?” cried the 
prince ; “ D’Aurilly was right, when he 
told me that they were there for no 
good purpose.” 

“What!” said Bussy, “you saw 
the party lying in wait — You had 
with you D’Aurilly, who plays almost 
as well with the sword as he does on 
the lute ? What ! he told your 
Highness that they were there for no 


good purpose — you were two and they 
were only five, and you did not 
remain to help the weaker party!” 

“ Bethink yourself — I couldn’t tell 
for whom they were waiting.” 

“ Death and the devil, as King 
Charles used to say, but when you 
saw they were friends of King Henry 
III., you must have imagined that they 
were after some friend of your’s. 
Now, as I am the only man that dares 
to be your friend, it was not difficult 
to guess that I was their quarry.” 

“ Yes, perhaps you are right, my 
dear Bussy ; but I did not think of 
all that.” 

“At last !” said Bussy, with a sigh, 
as if he were glad to find a word 
which would spare him the necessity 
of expressing all that he thought of 
his master. 

They had reached the Louvre. 
The Duke of Anjou was received at 
the wicket by the captain of the 
watch. The orders of the latter 
touching admittance were severe, but 
of course, as may be imagined, did 
not extend to the first prince in the 
kingdom after the King. According- 
ly, the prince disappeared under the 
arch of the draw-bridge, with all his 
suite. 

“ My lord,” said Bussy, as soon as 
they reached the court of honor, 
“ you will now proceed to act your 
part — recollect that you have promised 
solemnly — I have, myself, two words 
to say to a person here.” 

“ Are you going to leave me, Bus- 
sy ?” asked the prince, with some 
anxiety, for he had partly relied on 
the presence of the bold knight. 

“ I must ; but my absence need be 
no hindrance. Make yourself easy ; 
I will be with you before the fray is 
over. Don’t spare your lungs, my 
lord — cry, mordieu , loud enough for 
me to hear you — for I shall hold back, 
you understand, until I hear youi 
voice.” 

Then, availing himself of the 
duke’s entry into the grand saloon, 
he slipped, followed by Joan, into 
the apartments. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


31 


Bussy, who knew the Louvre as 
his own hotel, took a private stair- 
case, and after passing through two 
or three empty corridors, reached a 
species of ante-chamber. 

<c Wait for me here,” he said to 
Joan. 

u Oh , mon Dieu /” cried the alarm- 
ed Countess ; u are you going to 
leave me alone ?” 

u Necessarily ; for I must pave the 
way for you.” 

Bussy went straight to the private 
armory, in which King Charles IX. 
used to take so much delight, and 
which, by a recent alteration, had 
been converted by Henry III. into a 
bedroom. In the time of Charles 
IX., a royal sportsman, a royal poet, 
and a roval blacksmith, there were to 
be found in this room, horns, arque- 
buses, manuscripts, books, and an- 
vils. Henry III. had furnished it 
with two beds of velvet and satin ; 
with drawings of exceedingly licen- 
tious character, with relics and scapu- 
laries blessed by the Pope, with scent- 
bags from the East, and with the 
rarest collection of fencing-swords 
that could be met with in that cen- 
tury. 

Bussy well knew that Henry would 
not be in the room, as his brother 
was waiting audience in the grand 
saloon ; but he also knew that ad- 
joining the King’s chamber was the 
room which, from having been for- 
merly the room of the nurse of 
Charles IX., was now assigned for 
the use of the favorite of King 
Henry III. But, as Henry III was a 
prince singularly inconstant in his 
friendships, the room had been occu- 
pied by Maugiron, D’O, D’Epernon, 
Quelus, and Schomberg ; and as 
Bussy presumed, was at the present 
moment in the possession of Saint- 
Luc, toward whom the King had felt 
so violent a return of tenderness, 
that he had carried off the young 
husband from his wife. 

In fact, Henry III. was a strangely 
organized being ; frivolous and saga- 
cious, timorous and brave, he was 


always weary, always restless, and 
always moody. His mind required 
incessant occupation ; thus by day he 
found it in noise, games, exercises, 
mummeries, masquerades, and in- 
trigues, and by night, in gossip, 
prayer, and debauchery. Henry III. 
is, in fact, about the only character 
of this peculiar temperament, the 
existence of whom we find recorded 
in our modern world. Henry III., 
the hermaphrodite of the ancients, 
should have seen the day in some 
city of the East, in the midst of a 
community of mutes, slaves, eunuchs, 
houris, philosophers, and sophists, 
and his reign would have marked a 
particular era of elaborate debauchery 
and unconceived folly, between that 
of Nero and Heliogabalus. 

Now Bussy, taking it for granted 
that Saint-Luc occupied the nurse’s 
room, went and knocked at the door 
of the ante-chamber common to the 
two apartments. 

The captain of the King’s guards 
opened. 

u Monsieur de Bussy exclaimed 
the astonished officer. ? 

u Himself, my dear Monsieur de 
Nancey,” said Bussy. u The King 
would speak to Monsieur de Saint- 
Luc.” 

u All right!” said the captain. 
u Tell Monsieur de Saint-Luc that 
the King commands his presence.” 

Bussy gave a wink to the page 
through the door, which had remained 
ajar. 

Then turning to Monsieur de Nan- 
cey : 

u How does poor Saint-Luc man- 
age to kill time ?” he asked. 

u When the King is absent, as is the 
case just now, his Majesty being en- 
gaged ill giving audience to the Duke 
of Anjou, he amuses himself with 
Chicot.” 

u Will you allow my page to wait 
for me here ?” said Bussy to the cap 
tain of the guards. 

u With pleasure,” replied the lat- 
ter. 

| “ Come in, John,” said Bussy to 


32 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ffie Countess, pointing to a window 
•ecess, where she would be likely to 
scape notice. 

She was scarcely ensconced in her 
Dok, when Saint-Luc made his ap- 
iarance From delicacy, Monsieur 
} Nancey withdrew out of hearing. 

44 What does the King want with 
ie now ?” said Saint-Luc, in a sharp 
pettish tone, and with a face indi- 
cating the vexation which he felt. 
44 Oh ! that’s you, Monsieur de 
Bussy ?” 

44 No one else, my dear Saint-Luc, 
and before I say another word — ” 

He lowered his voice. 

44 Before I say another word, let 
me thank you for the kind service you 
rendered me.” 

44 Oh !” said Saint-Luc, 44 it was 
quite natural. I was averse to seeing 
a brave knight like you murdered. 
And yet, after all, I thought you were 
killed.” 

44 I had a narrow escape, and in 
such cases, a narrow escape is a great 
escape.” 

44 How so ?” 

44 Yes, I have come off with a sharp 
sword wound, which I think I paid 
back with interest to Schomberg and 
D’Fpernon. As for Quelus, he may 
thank his skull : it is one of the hard- 
est I have ever met with.” 

44 Oh ! tell me your adventure — it 
will divert me,” said Saint-Luc, 
yawning with a remarkable extension 
of jaws. 

44 I have no time just now, my dear 
Saint-Luc. Besides, I came here for 
articular purpose. You pass your 
} wearily, it would seem.” 
Royally — the word suffices.” 

• * Well ! I have come here to di- 
t you. S’death ! one good turn 
.erves another.” 

4 You are right, and the service 
u render me is fully equal to that 
rendered you. A man can die of 
aariness as well as of a sword 
ound ; the job is longer but surer.” 
44 Poor Count !” said Bussy, 44 you 
re then really a prisoner — I suspect- 
d as much.” 


44 As much a prisoner as a man 
can be. The King pretends that I 
am the only person capable of di- 
verting him. The King is easily 
pleased, for since yesterday I have 
made more faces at him than his ba- 
boon, and said more rude things to 
him than his jester.” 

44 Well, let me see ; as I said, can- 
not I, in my turn, do you some ser 
vice ?” 

44 Certainly you can,” said Saint- 
Luc ; 44 you can call at my hotel, or 
rather at the hotel of Marshal de 
Brissac, and say something to keep 
up my poor wife’s spirits. The dear 
little woman must be very uneasy, 
and look on my conduct as very 
strange.” 

44 What shall I say to her?” 

44 Par dieu! tell her that you have 
seen me — that I am a close prisoner, 
and that since yesterday, the King 
does nothing but discourse to me of 
friendship like that of Cicero, and 
of virtue like that of Socrates.” 

44 And how do you answer him ?” 
asked Bussy, laughing. 

44 Parbleu ! I tell him, that as for 
friendship, I am ungrateful, and that 
as for virtue, I am a graceless scamp ; 
but he, nevertheless, keeps repeating 
in a doleful tone, 4 Ah ! Saint-Luc, 
friendship, then, is but a name ! Ah ! 
Saint-Luc, virtue, then, has no real 
existence.’ Only, after saying so 
much in French, he says it over again 
in Latin, and repeats it in Greek.” 
At this sally, the page, who had 
not as yet been noticed by Saint-Luc, 
burst into a loud laugh. 

44 Oh, most wise King ! He hopes 
to touch your heart, my dear fellow 
— Bis repetitce placent — and with still 
stronger reason, ter . But is that all 
I can do for you?” 

44 Yes, or at least, I am afraid it 
is.” 

44 Then it is done.” 

44 How done ?” 

• 44 1 guessed your position, and have 
told it beforehand to your wife.” 

44 What did she say ?” 

44 She would not believe it, at 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


33 


first. But,” added Bussy, casting a 
look towards the window recess, 44 I 
trust that she is convinced now that 
I was right. Ask me, therefore, to 
do something else, something difficult 
— something impossible, I would have 
it. There would then be some plea- 
sure in executing it.” 

44 Then, my dear Bussy, borrow, 
if but for a few minutes, the hip- 
pogriff of the gentle knight Astolfo, 
and bring him here to the window. 

I will mount behind you, and you 
shall take me to my wife. You may 
then, if you please, continue your 
’ourney to the moon.” 

44 My dear fellow, it would be 
much more simple to take the hip- 
pogriff to your wife and bring her 
hither.” 

“ Hither ?” 

“ Yes, hither.” 

44 To the Louvre ?” 

44 To the Louvre. How like you 
the idea ? n 

_ 44 Mordieu ! I like it well.” 

44 You would not find time lie 
heavily on your hands ?” 

44 Faith, no !” 

44 You told me, a moment ago, that 
it was very tedious.” 

44 Ask Chicot. Since morning, I 
have taken a horror for him, and 
wanted to fight him. The rogue got 
so angry, that any one else than I 
would have had to hold his sides with 
laughter. Well, I did not move a 
muscle. But, if this state of things 
should last much longer, either I will 
kill him or he will kill me.” 

44 Peste ! you had better not try 
that game ; you know that Chicot 
would be a hard one to manage. 
You would find it more tedious in a 
coffin than in your prison.” 

44 I am not so sure of that.” 

44 Come,” said Bussy, 44 I will 
leave my page with you to entertain 
you.” 

46 With me?” 

44 Yes ; he is a rare page.” 

44 Thank you, no,” said Saint-Luc, 
44 I hate pages. The King gave me 
permission to send for my own, and 1 1 


refused. Bestow him on the King, 
who is organizing his household. As 
for me, as soon as I get out of this 
place, I will follow the example set 
at the green banquet at Chenonceaux, 
and will be waited on by none but 
women.” 

44 Bah !” persisted Bussy, 44 make 
a trial.” 

44 Bussy,” returned Saint-Luc, 
pettishly ; 44 you are wrong to teaze 
me so.” 

44 Let me have my way.” 

44 No.” 

44 But, I tell you, I know what you 
want.” 

44 No — a hundred times, no.” 

44 Ho, page — come here.” 

44 Mordieu /” cried Saint-Luc. 

The page left the window and ap- 
proached, blushing. 

44 Oh, oh !” cried the astonished 
Saint-Luc, when he recognized Joan 
in Bussy’s livery. 

44 Well,” asked Bussy, 44 shall I 
send him away ?” 

44 No, by heaven,” cried Saint- 
Luc, 44 Bussy, I swear eternal friend- 
ship to you.” 

44 Remember, Saint-Lue, that if 
you cannot be heard you may be 
seen.” 

And so it was ; for Monsieur de 
Nancey, surprised at Saint-Luc’s 
rather expressive pantomime, was be- 
ginning to listen, when a loud noise 
proceeding from the council-room 
drew away his attention. 

44 Ah , mon Dieu /” cried Monsieur 
de Nancey, 44 I believe the King is 
quarrelling with some one.” 

44 It would seem so,” returned Bus- 
sy, with affected anxiety. 44 Can it 
be with my lord, the Duke of Anjou, 
who came hither with me ?” 

The captain of the guards buckled 
on his sword, and hastened in the di- 
rection of the uproar, which was 
growing louder and louder. 

44 You will acknowledge that I have 
managed matters well,” said Bussy, 
returning to Saint-Luc. 

44 What is going on asked the 
latter. 


34 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


$ i 

li Only that the King and my lord, 
the Duke of Anjou, are just now at 
loggerheads, and, as it must be a fine 
sight, I’m off to witness it. Do you 
avail yourself of the confusion, not to 
fly? for the King would always know 
how to catch you again, but to con- 
ceal this precious page, whom I leave 
to your charge. Will it be possible ?” 
u Yes ) pardieu ! and besides, if it 
were not, it would have to become 
so : but, fortunately, I have been 
feigning sickness, and have kept my 
room.” 

u Then, good bye, Saint- Luc — 
Madame, remember me in your 
prayers.” 

•With these words, Bussy, well 
pleased with having circumvented the 
King, left the ante-chamber and pro- 
ceeded to the gallery, where the King, 
red with anger, was contending with 
the Duke of Anjou, who was pale 
with rage, and maintaining that, in 
the scene of the preceding night, 
Bussy was the aggressor. 

u I can assure your Majesty,” the 
Duke of Anjou was saying, u that 
D’Epernon, Schomberg, D’O., Mau- 
guiron, and Quelus were lying in wait 
for him at the Hotel des Tournelles.” 
u Who has told you so ?” . 

u I saw them myself — with my own 
eyes.” 

u In the darkness did you ? It was 
as dark as the inside of an oven.” 
u It was not by theii faces I knew 
them.” 

“ By what then ? — by their shoul- 
ders ?” / 1 

u No, sire — by their voices.” 
u They spoke to you, then !” 
u They did more — they took me 
for Bussy and charged me.” 

You?” 

“ Yes, me.” 

u And what business took you to 
the Porte St. Antoine ?” 
u It matters not.” 

“ But I would know. I am curious 
to-day.” 

“ 1 was going to see Manasses.” 

4 Manasses, a Jew !” 


u You go yourself to see Rugieri, 
a necromancer.” 

“ I go where I please — I am King.” 
u That is a knock-down argu- 
ment.” 

u Besides — I have said it — Bussy 
was the aggressor.” 

44 Bussy ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 When, may I ask ?” 

44 At Saint-Luc’s ball.” 

44 Bussy insult five men ? Come, 
come, Bussy is brave, but Bussy is not 
a madman.” 

44 ’S death ! I heard the insult my- 
self, I tell you. Besides, he was ca- 
pable of insulting five men, since, 
notwithstanding all that he has told 
you, he wounded Schomberg in the 
thigh, and D’Epernon in the arm, and 
almost killed Quelus.” 

44 Ah, indeed !” said the duke, 
44 he told me nothing of all this — I 
congratulate him.” 

44 And I,” said the King, 44 I will 
congratulate no one ; but I will make 
an example of this bully.” 

44 And I,” said the duke, 44 I, at- 
tacked by your friends, not only in 
the person of Bussy but in my own, I 
will know whether or not I am your 
brother, and whether there be in all 
France a single man, except your 
Majesty, who has the right to look 
me in the face without, on the in- 
stant, bending his head, from fear if 
not from respect.” 

At that moment, Bussy, attracted 
by the noise, and bravely attired in 
light green satins with rose-colored 
knots and ribands, made his appear- 
ance. 

44 Sire,” said he, bending to the 
King ; 44 will your Majesty deign to 
accept my humble homage ?” 

44 Pardieu ! here he is,” said 
Henry. 

44 Has your Majesty done me the 
honor of inquiring for me ?” asked 
Bussy. 

44 Yes,” returned the King, 44 and 
I am very glad to see you, notwith- 
standing what people have been say- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


35 


mg ; you seem to be in excellent 
health.” 

“ Sire, letting blood clears the 
complexion,” said Bussy, “ and I 
must, therefore, be looking very fresh 
this evening.” 

“ Well, as you have been beaten 
and bruised, make your complaint, 
Seigneur de Bussy — I will see justice 
done you.” 

u Allow me to say, Sire,” said 
Bussy, u that I have been neither 
beaten nor bruised, and that I make 
no complaint ” 

Henry was astonished, and looked 
at the Duke of Anjou. 

u What was it, then, that you told 
me ?” he asked. 

u I said that Bussy had been 
stabbed in the side.” 

u Is this true, Bussy ?” asked the 
King. 

u Since your majesty s brother as- 
serts it,” said Bussy, u it must be 
true — the first prince of the blood 
cannot lie.” 

u And yet you make no com- 
plaint ?” returned Henry. 

u I might complain, Sire, if I were 
deprived of my right hand to prevent 
me from obtaining satisfaction myself ; 
and, even then,” added the inveterate 
duellist, u I trust that I should ob- 
tain it with the left.” 

u Insolent fellow !” muttered Hen- 

r J* 

u Sire,” said the Duke of Anjou, 
“ you spoke of justice. Well, let 
justice be done — it is all we ask. 
Order an inquiry, and let us find out 
which party intended murder.” 
Henry changed color. 

“ No,” said he, u I had rather, this 
time, not know which side was in the 
wrong, and include all parties in a 
general pardon. I had rather these 
savage enemies should make peace, 
and I regret that Schomberg and 
D’Epernon are not here to obey my 
commands. But come, Monsieur 
d’Anjou, in your opinion, which of 
my friends was most forward and de- 
termined ? Y ou ought to know, since 
you say you saw them all.” 


u Sire,” said the Duke of Anjou, 
u i4 was Quelus.” 

u By my faith, it was !” said Que- 
lus, u I don’t deny it, and his High- 
ness is right.” 

u Well, then,” said the King, u let 
Monsieur de Bussy and Monsieur de 
Quelus make peace in their own be- 
half, and in behalf of their friends.” 
u Oh !” said Quelus, u what does 
this mean, Sire ?” 

u It means that I command you 
and Monsieur de Bussy to become 
reconciled here in my presence, and 
on the instant.” 

Quelus knit his brows. 
u What, signor !” said Bussy, turn- 
ing to Quelus and mimicking the 
gestures of the Italian pantaloon ; 
“will you not condescend to do me 
that favor ?” 

This sally was so unexpected, and 
Bussy delivered it so drolly and with 
so much spirit', that the King himself 
laughed. Following it up, Bussy 
went over to Quelus and added : 
u Come, Monsieur, it is the King’s 
pleasure.” 

And, with the word, he threw 
his arms round his neck. 

“ I hope that you will not hold 
yourself bound by this mummery,” 
whispered Quelus to Bussy. 

“ Make yourself easy,” said Bussy 
in the same tone, u we shall meet 
again.” 

Quelus, all confused and ruffied, 
stepped back, overcome with rage and 
mortification. 

Henry frowned, whilst Bussy, still 
pantalooning it, executed a pirouette 
and vanished from the council-cham- 
ber. By this grotesque reconcilia- 
tion, he made himself one mortal 
enemy. 


36 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PETIT COUCHER OF KING 
HENRY III. 

After this scene, which, having open- 
ed as a tragedy, had terminated in a 
comedy, and which did not fail^to be 
noised abroad, the monarch, still 
angry, bent his steps back to his pri- 
vate apartments, followed by Chicot, 
who was calling lustily for his sup- 
per. 

44 I am not hungry,” said the King, 
as he put his foot on the threshold of 
his door. 

44 That may be,” said Chicot, 
44 but I am going mad, and must 
therefore bite.” 

The King pretended not to hear 
him. He unclasped his cloak and 
placed it on the bed, removed his 
cap, which was fastened on his head 
by long black pins, and threw it on 
his arm-chair, and then going toward 
the passage leading to Saint-Luc’s 
room, which was separated from his 
own merely by a simple partition, he 
said to Chicot : 

44 Wait /or me here, fool — I shall 
be back directly.” 

44 Oh ! don’t hurry yourself, son,” 
said Chicot; 44 don’t hurry yourself. 
1 even hope,” added he, listening to 
Henry’s departing footsteps, 44 you 
will give me time to prepare a little 
surprise for you.” 

And then, when he deemed his 
master to be out of hearing, he be- 
stirred himself. 

44 Ho, there !” cried he, opening 
the door of the antechamber. 

A valet came forward hastily. 

44 The King has changed his mind,” 
said he; 44 he would have a delicate 
supper prepared for himself and 
Saint-Luc, and he directs particular 
attention to be paid to the wines. 
Go.” 

The valet turned on his heels and 
ran to execute Chicot’s orders, not 
doubting but that they proceeded 
from the King. 

As for Henry, he Lad Ukta his 


| way, as we have said, to Saint-Luc’s 
room. The prisoner, having beer 
warned of the King’s approach, had 
lain down on his bed, where he was 
listening to prayers which were read 
to him by an aged servant who had 
accompanied him to the Louvre, and 
was detained with him. On a gilt 
chair in a corner, with his head 
between his hands, slept the page 
brought by Bussy. 

The King took in the whole state 
of affairs at a single glance. 

44 Who is that youth ?” asked he, 
pointing to the page. 

44 Had I not your Majesty’s per- 
mission to send for one of my pages ?” 
44 Yes — certainly,” answered Hen- 
ry- 

44 Well, I have availed myself of 
the permission.” 

44 Ah, ah !” 

44 Does your Majesty regret having 
granted me such a favor ?” asked 
Saint-Luc. 

44 By no means, my son, by no 
means ; on the contrary, amuse your- 
self. But how do you find yourself?” 
44 Sire,” said Saint-Luc, 44 I have 
a great deal of fever.” 

44 In truth,” said the King, 44 your 
face is all crimson, my son. Let me 
feel your pulse — you know that I an: 
something of a leech.” 

Saint-Luc held out his arm with a 
manifest movement of ill-humor. 

44 Hum !” said the King — 44 full, 
intermittent, agitated — ” 

44 The fact is,” said Saint-Luc, 
44 that I feel very ill.” 

44 Make your mind easy,” said the 
King — u I will have you attended by 
my own physician.” 

44 Thank you, Sire.” 

44 I will nurse you myself.” 

44 Sire, I cannot allow it.” 

44 I’ll have a bed made in this 
room, Saint-Luc. We will talk the 
whole night long — I have a thousand 
things — ” 

44 Ah f ” cried Saint-Luc in de- 
spair— ' you say that you are a phy- 
sician -you call yourself iny friend, 
and y u would deprive me of my rest 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAIL 


37 


Morbleu , doctor, you have a droll 
way of treating your friends ! Mor- 
bleu, Sire- you have a peculiar way of 
treating your friends !” 

What — would you be left alone, 
sick as you are ?” 

u Sire, I have my page John.’' 
u But he is asleep.” 
u Precisely as I like people to he 
^ho sit up with me ; at least, they 
frannot prevent me from sleeping.” 
u Well then, let me watch with 
him. I will only speak to you when 
you are awake.” 

u Sire, I am always very cross 
when I awake, and one must be well 
accustomed to me to put up with the 
foolish things I am in the habit of say- 
ing before I am thoroughly roused.” 
u Well, come and attend at my 
coucher .” 

u Shall I be free afterward to re- 
turn to bed ?” 
u Perfectly free.” 

“ Then I will go. But I shall 
prove but a poor courtier — I am over- 
come with the want of sleep.” 

u You shall yawn just as much as 
you please.” 

“ What tyranny !” said Saint- 
Luc — u when you have all your other 
friends.” 

u My other friends, indeed ! They 
are in a fine condition, and Bussy 
has greatly improved their health ! 
Schomberg has his thigh laid open ; 
D’Epernon has his wrist slashed like 
a Spanish sleeve ; Quelus is suffering 
as well from the blow he received yes- 
terday as from the embrace he re- 
ceived to-day. There remains D’O, 
who tires me, and Maugiron, who is 
sulky with me. Come, wake up that 
great lout of a page, and throw on a 
dressing-gown.” 

u Sire, if your Majesty will leave 
me.” 

u Why leave you ?” 
u The respect I — ” 

“ Pooh !” 

u Sire, in five minutes, I will be 
with your Majesty.” 

u Be it so — in five minutes ! But 
be not longer than five minutes, do 


you hear ; and, during those minutes, 
think of some good story to make me 
laugh, Saint-Luc.” 

Thereupon the King, who had ob- 
tained the half of what he wanted, 
withdrew half pleased. 

The door was no sooner closed be- 
hind him, than the page started up 
wide awake, and, in one bound, was 
standing by Saint-Luc’ s side. 

u Ah, Saint-Luc !” said he, when 
the King was out of hearing, u you 
are going to leave me again. Mon 
Dieu , what a torment ! I am ready 
to die with fear. If a discovery — ” 
u My dear Joan,” said Saint-Luc, 
u Gaspard there,” and he pointed to 
the old servant, u will protect you.” 
u Why, I might as well return 
home,” said the young countess, 
blushing. 

u If you absolutely require it, 
Joan,” said Saint-Luc in a sorrowful 
tone, u I will send you back to the 
Hotel Montmorency, for the orders 
at the gate only regard me. But if 
you are as good as you are beautiful 
— if your heart has any feeling for 
poor Saint-Luc, you will wait a few 
minutes for him. I will have such a 
headache, I will be so nervous — in a 
word, I will be so ill, that the King 
will tire of me and speedily dismiss 
me.” 

Joan cast down her eyes. 
u Go then,” said she; a I will 
wait ; but I may say to you as the 
King did — don’t be long.” 

O O 

u Joan, my dear Joan, you are an 
adorable creature,” said Saint-Luc — 
u rely upon me for coming back as 
speedily as possible. Beside, an idea 
has just come into my head which 
only wants further reflection, and on 
my return I will communicate it to 
you.” 

u An idea — your escape 
u I hope so.” 

“ Then go.” 

u Gaspard,” said Saint-Luc, 
c guard well the door, and let no one 
enter in hither ; a quarter of an hour 
hence, lock it, and bring me the key 
to the king’s room. Then go back 


38 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


to the hotel, and bay that your lady, 
the countess, will not return till to- 
morrow.” 

Gaspard smiled, as he promised to 
execute his master’s commands. • The 
young wife listened and blushed. 

Saint-Luc took Joan’s hand, kissed 
it, and hastened to join the King, who 
was beginning to lose patience. 

Joan, all confused and trembling, 
ensconced herself behind the ample 
bed-curtains, and there, thoughtful, 
uneasy, and extremely vexed, set 
about meditating upon some strata- 
gem by means of which she might 
make her adventure end victoriously 
for herself. 

When Saint-Luc entered the King’s 
room, his senses were instantly invad- 
ed by a penetrating and voluptuous 
perfume, the exhalations of which 
filled the atmosphere. Crushed flow- 
ers, the stalks of which had been re- 
moved that they might not inconve- 
nience his majesty's feet, lay strewn 
on the floor. Roses, jessamines, vio- 
lets, and gilliflowers formed, notwith- 
standing the rigor of the season, a 
soft and odorous carpet under the 
king’s feet 

The room, the ceiling of which had 
been lowered and decorated with 
paintings on canvass, was furnished, 
as has already been stated, with two 
beds, one of which was so large that, 
although the head was against the 
wall, it occupied nearly a third of the 
apartment. The tapestry of this bed 
was of silk and gold, with mythologi- 
cal designs representing the history 
of Ceneus or Cenis, at times a woman 
and at times a man, a metamorphosis 
that was not effected, as may be ima- 
gined, without the assistance of the 
fantastic imagination of the prince. 
The canopy of the bed was of silver 
tissue, with figures worked in gold 
and silk, and the royal arms, richly 
embroidered, were emblazoned on the 
back of the canopy behind the pil- 
lows 

The windows were hung with the 
same tapestry as the bed, and the 


\ 

couches and arm-chairs harmonized 
with the rest. From the centre of 
the ceiling hung suspended a lamp of 
silver-gilt, in which burned a kind 
of perfumed oil, which diffused an ex- 
quisite odor. On the right of the 
bed, was a golden satyr grasping a 
chandelier in which burned four rose- 
colored tapers, also of perfumed wax. 
These tapers, as large as the conse- 
crated tapers of a church, cast a light, 
which, united with that of the lamp, 
rendered the room perfectly light. 

The King, with his feet resting on 
the flowers strewn on the floor, was 
seated in his chair of ebony, inlaid 
with gold; he had on his knees seven 
or eight spaniel puppies, whose cool 
noses were gently tickling his hands 
as he caressed them. Two attendants 
were dressing his hair, turned up like 
a woman’s, his mustaches a crochet , 
and his chin and flaky beard. 

A third was anointing his face 
with an oily, rose colored cream, of 
a peculiar taste, which exhaled a 
most tempting odor. 

Henry, with his eyes closed, was 
reclining with the indolent majesty 
of an Indian god. 

“ Saint-Luc,” said he, u where is 
Saint-Luc ?” 

Saint-Luc entered the room as he 
spoke. 

Chicot took him by the hand and 
led him forward. 

“Here,” said he to the King, “is 
your friend Saint-Luc. Tell him to 
wash himself, or rather, to besmear 
himself, also, with cream; for, if you 
neglect this indispensable precaution, 
the result will be very disagreeable — 
either he will smell disagreeably to 
you, who smell so sweet, or you will 
smell too sweet to him who does not 
smell at all. Ho, there !” added he, 
stretching himself in a chair oppo- 
site to the King. “Combs and 
cream ! I would have a touch my- 
self.” 

“Chicot, Chicot,” cried Henry; 
“ your skin is too dry, and will ab- 
sorb too much cream — there’s scarcely 


» 


THE LADY OF 

enough for my own use — and then, 
your beard’s so stiff that it will break 
luy combs.” 

“ My skin has grown hard in your 
service, ungrateful prince ! And if 
the hair on my face is hard, it’s be- 
cause the annoyance you are con- 
stantly giving me, keeps it on an 
end. However, if you refuse me 
cream for my cheeks, that is to say, 
for my outside, I will be even with 
you, my son — that’s all I’ve got to 
say.” 

Henry shrugged his shoulders, as if 
not greatly amused by his fool’s 
jokes. 

“Be quiet,” said he — “you are 
talking nonsense.” 

Then turning round to Saint-Luc, 

“ Well,” he inquired, “your head- 
ache? how is it now?” 

Saint-Luc pressed his forehead, 
and groaned. 

“ Imagine,” continued Henry, 
“that I have seenBussy d’Amboise. — 
Oh, oh, Monsieur,” he said to the 
hair-dresser, “you are burning me!” 

The hair-dresser fell on his knees. 

“You have seen Bussy d’Amboise, 
Sire,” said Saint-Luc, shaking all 
over. 

“Yes,” returned the King. “Can 
you understand how the awkward 
fools, who were five to one, could 
have missed him ! I will have them 
well drubbed. If you had been there, 
say, Saint-Luc, would it have ended 
thus?” 

“Sire,” replied the young noble, 
“in all probability I should not have 
fared better than my companions.” 

“Bah!” said the King. “You 
are not in earnest when you say that. 

I will wager on it, that you can hit 
Lussy ten times for his six. Par - 
dleu! to-morrow we will try it. Are 
you in practice, my child ?” 

“ Yes, Sire. ” 

“Do you practise often? I ask 
you that.” 

“ Nearly every' day, when I am 
well, but when I am sick, Sire, I am 
absolutely good for nothing.” 


MONSOREAU. 39 

“How often used you generally to 
hit me with the foils ?” 

“ Our play was about equal, Sire.” 

“But I fence better than Bussy — 
Par la mordieu , Monsieur said 
Henry, to his barber, “you are tear- 
ing my mustaches.” 

The barber fell on his knees. 

“ Sire,” said Saint-Luc, “tell me 
a cure for the head-ache.” 

“You must eat,” said the King. 

“ Oh, Sire, I think you must be 
wrong !” 

“No, I assure you.” 

“You are right, Valois,” said 
Chicot; “and as I have the heart- 
ache, or stomach-ache, I do not well 
know whether I am following your 
prescription.” 

The King turned round, and saw 
Chicot, who had devoured all by 
himself, the supper for two, ordered in 
the King’s name, and was now smack- 
ing his lips very noisily, over the con- 
tents of a cup of Japanese porcelain, 
which he was licking clean. 

“ Well,” said Henry, “ what the 
devil are you about there, Monsieur 
Chicot?” 

• 

“I am taking my cream inside, 
since I am forbidden to take it out- 
side,” said Chicot. 

“ Ah, traitor!” exclaimed the 
King, turning round with an awk- 
ward motion of his head, which re- 
sulted in the valet’s filling his royal 
mouth with cream. 

“ Eat, my son,” said Chicot, grave- 
ly. “I am not so tyrannical as you 
are — outside and inside ; I permit 
both.” 

“ Sir, you are choking me,” said 
Henry to the valet-de-chambre. 

The valet-de-chambre, like his pre- 
decessors, the hair-dresser and bar- 
ber, fell on his knees. 

“Go instantly and order my cap- 
tain of the guards to come here,” 
cried Henry. “Tell him to come 
instantly.” 

“ What will you do with your cap- 
tain when you have him here ?” ask- 
ed Ch'cot, rubbing the inside of the 


40 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


cup with his finger, and then raising 
his finger to his mouth. 

u He shall run you through the 
body with his sword, and lean though 
you be, you shall make a meal for my 
dogs to-day.” 

Chicot rose from his seat, and 
cocked his hat on one side. 

u Par la mordieu /” he cried. 
u Chicot to your dogs — a gentleman 
to your four-legged beasts ! Well, 
my son, let him come on, your 
captain of the guards, and we will 
see .” 

With these words, Chicot drew 
his long sword, with which he fenced 
away so drolly at the hair- dresser, at 
the barber, and at the valet-de-cham- 
bre, that the King could not help 
laughing. 

u But I am hungry, whined the 
King, u and that rascal has eaten up 
iny supper.” 

u You are capricious, Henry,” 
said Chicot. «. u When I proposed sup- 
per, you declined. At any rate, you 
have your posset left. As for me, I 
am no longer hungry, and shall go to 
bed.” 

Pending these remarks, old Gas- 
pard had delivered the key to his 
master. 

u 1 also will go to bed,” said 
Saint-Luc ; a for were I to remain here 
any longer, I should have a nervous 
attack, in my King’s royal presence, 
and so fail in the respect I owe him. 
I am shivering.” 

u Take some of these,” said the 
King, holding out to the young no- 
ble a handful of his little dogs, 
u take some of these.” 

u What shall I do with them ?” in- 
quired Saint-Luc. 

u Take them to bed with you ; 
they will catch your complaint, and 
rid you of it.” 

u Thank you, Sire,” said Saint-Luc, 
putting back the spaniels into their 
basket, u I have no confidence in 
your receipt.” 

u I will look in and see how you 
are, during the night, Saint-Luc,” 
said the King. 


u Oh, pray do not, Sire, I entreat 
you,” said Saint-Luc ; u you’ll star- 
tle me from my sleep, and that is 
said to bring on epileptic fits.” 

With these words he bowed and 
left the room, followed by the friend- 
ly demonstrations of the King until 
he was out of sight and hearing. 

Chicot had already disappeared. 

The two or three remaining per- 
sons who had attended the royal 
coucher , withdrew in their turn. 

The King was left with his valets, 
who proceeded to cover his face with 
a mask of fine linen, saturated with 
a red scented ointment. Holes for 
the nose, eyes and mouth, were con- 
trived in this mask, and a cap of silk 
and silver secured it in front and 
about the ears. 

After this, the King was helped to 
his dressing gown of rose-colored 
satin, very softly lined with fine silk 
and wadded ; then his gloves were 
handed to him. These gloves were 
made of leather so flexible that they 
might have been mistaken for knitted 
work ; they extended up to the 
elbows, and were rubbed inside with 
scented oil, a preliminary operation 
to which they were indebted for their 
pliability, the cause of which was not 
externally perceptible. 

These mysteries of the toilet con- 
cluded, his nossetwas Landed to him 
in a large gold cup, but before raising 
it to his lips, he emptied half of it 
into another cup, precisely similar to 
his own, and sent it to Saint-Luc 
with his best wishes for a good night’s 
rest. 

It was now heaven’s turn, and it 
was probably in consequence of his 
great pre-occupation during the day 
that Harry did not bestow on his 
spiritual concerns, his usual attention. 
He said but one prayer, and did not 
even touch his beads, and then he 
laid himself down in his bed which 
had been warmed with a heat obtain- 
ed from the combustion of coriander, 
benzoin, and cinnamon. 

Once propped conveniently on his 
numerous pillows, Henry commanded 


t 


# 


THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


the removal of the flowers which were 
beginning to affect the air of the 
room. The windows were opened to 
admit the fresh breeze of the night, 
after which, a large fire of pine 
branches blazed up in the marble 
fire-place, and although rapid as a 
meteor, it did not go out until it had 
diffused a mild heat throughout the 
whole apartment. 

Then, the valet closed everything, 
curtains and docA-hangings, and let 
in Narcisse, the King’s favorite dog. 
With one bound, he plumped on his 
master’s bed, scratched it for a mo- 
ment, turned round and round, and 
stretched himself across the King’s 
feet. 

Finally, the rose-colored tapers 
burning in the grasp of the golden 
satyr were extinguished, the light of 
the night-lamp was lowered, a smaller 
wick being substituted for that which 
was burning in it, and the attendant 
who had charge of these details, 
stealthily withdrew from the room. 

In a few minutes, more at his ease, 
more regardless of the external world, 
than the lazy monks buried in the 
rich monasteries of his kingdom, the 
sovereign of France gave himself not 
the trouble even of dreaming that 
France had an existence. 

The King slept. 

Half an hour afterward, the officers 
in waiting in the galleries, and who, 
from their different posts, could dis- 
tinguish the windows of the King’s 
apartment, saw through the curtains 
that the royal lamp was entirely ex- 
tinguished, and that the silvery rays 
of the moon had replaced on the 
window panes the mild rose-colored 
tints which had proceeded from the 
interior. They concluded, therefore, 
that: his Majesty was sound asleep. 

And now, on the outside, as well 
as in the inside, all was still, and 
even the silent wing of the bat could 
have been heard to flutter in the dark 
coiridor of the palace of the Louvre. 


41 

CHAPTER VI. 

HOW, WITHOUT THE INTERVENTION 

OF PRIEST OR LAYMAN, KING HENRY 

WAS CONVERTED BETWEEN NIGHT 

AND MORNING. 

Two hours passed away, when sud 
denly the stillness of the night was 
broken by a loud and piercing scream. 

This scream proceeded from the 
King’s apartment. 

And yet the night-lamp was extin- 
guished, all was wrapped in the 
deepest silence, and no sound was to 
be heard except this strange call from 
his Majesty, the King ; for it was the 
King who had screamed. 

A pause ensued, and then was 
heard the sound of furniture thrown 
down, of porcelain dashed to atoms, 
and of maddened footsteps racing 
over the floor. To these were soon 
added fresh screams, mingled with 
the barking of dogs. Lights were 
instantly forthcoming, swords gleamed 
in the galleries, and the massy pillars 
shook under the heavy tramp of the 
drowsy guards. 

u To arms, to arms I” resounded 
on all sides, u the King calls, the 
King calls ! Let us run to the King’s 
aid.” 

And rushing forward in a body, 
the captain of the guards, the colonel 
of the Suisses, the officers of the 
palace, and the arquebusiers on 
service, burst into the royal chamber. 
Twenty torches illuminated the 
scene. 

Close to the bed, the sheets and 
coverlids of which were scattered on 
the floor pell-mell, amid various 
articles of furniture, stood Henry in 
his night dress, pale, with his hair 
standing on an end, and his eyes 
fixed on vacancy. He was a gro- t 
tesque, yet frightful object. 

His right hand was extended, and 
trembling like a leaf shaken by the 
wind. 

His left hand grasped the pummel 
of his sword. 

I The dog, equally agitated with his 

. •' 


42 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


master, was gazing at him, and howl- 
ing, with his paws fixed far apart. 

The King was mute, apparently 
from terror, and the spectators, not 
daring to interrupt the silence, were 
interrogating each other by looks and 
awaiting what was to follow with ter- 
rible anxiety. 

At this moment, half dressed, but 
wrapped in an ample cloak, appeared 
the young Queen, Louisa of Lorraine, 
a fair and gentle creature, who led 
on this earth a holv life, and who 
had been awakened by her husband’s 
screams. 

u Sire,” said she, trembling more 
than any one else there present, 
a what has happened ? Mon Dien , I 
heard your cries and came here in- 
stantly.” 

u ’Tis — ’tis — ’tis nothing,” said 
the King, without moving his eyes, 
which seemed to be gazing at some 
vague object invisible to all except 
to himself. 

u But your Majesty screamed,” re- 
turned the Queen. “Your Majesty 
must, therefore, be in pain.” 

Terror was so plainly expressed in 
Henry’s countenance, that by degrees 
it extended to the spectators. They 
pressed backward and forward, ex- 
amining with eager looks the person 
f the King, to see if he were not 
mnded, struck by the lightning of 
ven, or bitten by some reptile. 

Oh, Sire,” resumed the Queen, 
re, in the name of heaven, do not 
/ us in torture. Will you not 
a physician ?” 

4 A physician !” said Henry, in 
3 same sinister tone. 44 No, the 
>dy is not sick, ’tis the soul, the 
jpirit ; no, no, no doctor — a confes- 
ior.” 

Every one looked — doors, curtains, 
the floor, the ceiling, were anxiously 
scrutinized. Nowhere was to be 
found a trail of the invisible object 
that had so greatly terrified the King. 

This scrutiny was renewed over and 
over again, and the mystery thick- 
ened when the King was heard to ask 
for a confessor. 


The requisition was no sooner made 
than a messenger leaped on his horse, 
and thousands of bright sparks flashed 
up from the paved court of the Louvre, 
beneath the heels of the courser. 
Five minutes afterward, the superior 
of the convent of the Jesuits wa3 
awakened, and was literally dragged 
from his bed, and brought into the 
King’s presence. 

On the arrival of the confessor, all 
tumult ceased, silence was re-estab- 
lished, the household questioned, 
conjectured, and guessed ; their curi- 
osity was great, but fear was the feel- 
ing uppermost — the King was at con- 
fession. 

Early the next morning, the King 
rose before any of his household were 
astir, and ordered the Louvre gates to 
be closed. Then he sent for his 
treasurer, drier and master of the 
ceremonies. He took his common 
prayer book, bound in black, and 
read prayers, interrupted his prayers 
to cut out the images of the saints, 
and then suddenly commanded the 
presence of all his friends. 

This order was conveyed to Saint- 
Luc, but Saint-Luc was suffering 
more than ever. He was weak and 
overcome with fatigue ; his complaint 
had lapsed into a lethargy, his sleep 
had been so profound that he alone, 
of all the inmates of the palace, had 
not heard the disturbance of the pre- 
ceding night, although only a thin 
partition intervened between his room 
and the King’s. Accordingly he en- 
treated to be allowed to remain in his 
bed, where he promised to say as 
many prayers as the King might 
order. 

When his lamentable condition was 
communicated to the King, Henry 
made the sign of the cross, and or- 
dered his apothecary to be sent to 
him. 

Then, he ordered all the disciplines 
belonging to the monastery of the 
Augustins, to be brought to the Lou- 
vre. When this was done, he went 
up to Schomberg, who was lame ; to 
D’Epernon, who had his arm in a 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AD. 


43 


sling ; to Quelus, who was still gid- 
dy from the effects of his blow, and 
to D’O and Maugiron, who were trem- 
bling/ To all he gave disciplines, 
directing them to scourge each other 
with all their might and strength. 

D’Epernon having ventured to re- 
mark, that, having his right arm in a 
sling, he ought to be left out of the 
ceremony, inasmuch as he could not 
give back the blows he would receive, 
which would make a species of dis- 
cord in the scourging chorus, Henry 
made answer, that his penance would 
be all the more agreeable to Heaven. 

He himself commenced giving the 
example. He took off his doublet, 
vest and shirt, and laid on like a 
martyr. Chicot made an attempt to 
laugh and banter as usual, but a ter- 
rible look from the King informed 
him that his jests would be ill-timed; 
then, he took a discipline like the 
rest ; but, instead of striking him— ; 
self, he laid on his neighbors ; and, 
when he had no shoulder within his 
reaoh, his blows fell on the paintings, 
columns, and wainscoting. 

This tumult restored a little sereni- 
ty to the King, although it was plain 
his mind remained profoundly affected. 

Suddenly he broke off and left his 
room, ordering his suite to await his 
return. As soon as he was out of 
sight, the penances were discontinued 
as if by enchantment. Chicot alone 
continued to lay on D’O, whom he held 
in execration, and D’O paid him back 
as well as he could. It was a duel 
with birches. 

Henry had gone into the Queen’s | 
apartments. He made her a gift of 
a bracelet of pearls, of the value of 
twenty-five thousand crowns ; kissed 
both her cheeks, which he had not 
done before for a year, and entreated 
her to lay aside the ornaments of roy- 
alty, and attire herself in sackcloth. 

Louisa of Lorraine, as usual gentle 
and yielding, made no difficulty about 
consenting ; but she asked why her 
royal husband, in presenting her with 
a bracelet of pearls, required her to 
attire herself in sackcloth. 


u For my sins,” said Henry. 

His answer satisfied the Queen, for 
she knew better than any one else 
the enormous load of sin that bur- 
thened her husband’s conscience. She 
dressed herself as the King desired, 
while he returned to his room, after 
appointing to meet her there 

On the reappearance of the King, 
the scourging recommenced. Ch ; *'"‘ 
and D’O, who had not disconti 
their employment during his ab^e_ 
were covered with blood. The King 
complimented them, calling them his 
true and only friends. 

About ten minutes after this, the 
Queen arrived, dressed in sackcloth. 
Tapers were immediately distributed 
to the whole court, and despite the 
horrible weather, in the snow and 
sleet, court exquisites, fine ladies, 
and good citizens, all devout votaries 
of the King and of our Lady, pro- 
ceeded with naked feet to Montmar- 
tre, shivering at the start, but for 
the most part speedily warmed by the 
blows laid by Chicot on all who came 
within the reach of his discipline. 

As for D’O, he confessed himself 
vanquished, and joined a file fifty 
yards distant from Chicot. 

At four o’clock in the afternoon, 

0 

the gloomy promenade was over: the 
convents had received rich alms; the 
feet of the courtiers were all blistered 
and their backs skinned ; the Queen 
had appeared in public in a vast 
chemise of coarse linen, and the King 
with a chaplet of death’s heads. In 
a word, there had been an abundance 
of tears, cries, prayers, incense and 
canticles. 

Thus, as may be seen, the day had 
been well employed. In fact, every 
one had endured cold and blows to 
please the King, without any one 
having been able to discover why a 
Prince, who had danced so heartily 
the night before the last, should ma- 
cerate himself so severely on the day 
after. 

Huguenots, Leaguers, and libertines, 

! had seen the procession pass, laugh - 
1 ing heartily at the train of flagellators 


<4 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


and flagellated, and saying, like real 
depredators a3 they were, u What 
sort of folk are these ?” and insisting 
^hat the last procession was finer and 
riiore fervent, which was not the case. 

The King had returned fasting, and 
with long black and blue streaks on 
his back. He had not left the 
Queen’s side during the whole day, 
and he had availed himself of every 
moment of rest at the different sta- 
tions and chapels by the way, to pro- 
mise her additions to her income, and 
to form plans for making pilgrimages 
with her at some future day. 

As for Chicot, tired of striking, 
and hungered by the unusual exercise 
to which the King had condemned 
him, he had slipped away just out- 
side of the Montmartre gate, and with 
several unbelievers belonging to the 
court, had entered a rural tavern of 
great renown, where he and his com- 
panions had feasted on spiced wines, 
and on teal killed in the marshes of 
Grange-Bateliere Then, on the re- 
turn of the procession, he had resum- 
ed his place, and accompanied it back 
to the Louvre, bestowing his blows 
on penitents of both sexes with fresh 
energy, and distributing, as ho said 
himself, his plenary indulgences. 

In the evening, what with fasting, 
blows, and walking with naked feet, 
the King felt quite fatigue. Having 
partaken of a light supper, without 
meat, and had his back warmed and 
comforted, before a large fire, he paid 
a visit to Saint-Luc, whom he found 
brisk and cheerful. 

Since the preceding evening, 
the King was greatly changed ; all 
his thoughts were turned on the van- 
>ty of human things, on penance and 
death. 

u Ah !” said he to Saint-Luc, in 
the tone of a man profoundly disgust- 
ed with life. u Heaven has done wisely 
to render our existence a burden and 
a pain.” 

u Why so, Sire ?” asked Saint-Luc. 

u Because man learns to despise it, 
and instead of fearing death, comes 
to wish for it.” 


“ Pardon me, Sire,” said Saint 
Luc, u you may speak for yourself , 
but, as for me, I have no wish at all 
to die.” 

u Hear me, Saint-Luc,” said the 
King, shaking his head, u if you’ll 
take my advice, you’ll follow my ex- 
ample.” 

“ Willingly, Sire, provided the ex- 
ample be to my taste.” 

u Let us leave the world and all 
that’s in it — I’ll leave my crown and 
you your wife — and we will bury our- 
selves in a convent. 1 have dispen- 
sations from his Holiness the Pope, 
and if you like, we will make our 
professions no later than to-morrow. 
I will call myself brother Henry” — 
u Pardon me, Sire; you may care 
little for your crown, of which you 
have had enough ; but I care a great 
deal for my wife of whom I have not 
had enough — Therefore, I decline.” 
u Oh, oh !” said Henry, u you are 
better, it would seem.” 

u Much better, Sire ; I feel my 
mind composed and my heart rejoic- 
ed. In fact, I feel inclined for joy 
and pleasure to an incredible degree. ” 
u Poor Saint-Luc !” said the King, 
clasping his hands together fervently 
u You should have made your pro 
position yesterday, Sire. Oh, yester- 
day I was whimsical, cross and suffer- 
ing. For a trifle, I would have 
thrown myself into a well or into a 
convent. But this evening, mordieu , 
’tis another matter ; I have passed a 
good night, and a charming day ; so 
vive la j ore /” 

u Don’t swear, Saint-Luc,” said 
the King. 

u Did I swear, Sire ? Well, per- 
haps I did ; but, you yourself, you 
sometimes swear.” 

u I will swear no more, Saint-Luc.” 
u I can’t promise so much ; but I 
will swear as little as possible. That 
is all that I can pledge myself to. 
Besides, God is good and merciful, 
especially when our sins proceed from 
human weakness.” 

u You think, then, that God will 
pardon me ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


45 


“ Oh, I am not speaking for you, 
Sire — I am speaking for your humble 
servant. Peste ! you have sinned — 
like a kins: — whereas I have sinned 

O 

like a subject: so I trust that at the 
last day the Lord will have two 
weights and two scales.” ♦ 

The King sighed, muttered a con - 
fiteor , and knocked his breast at the 
me a culpa. 

u Saint-Luc,” said he at last, 
a will you come and pass the night 
in my room ?” 

u That depends,” said Saint-Luc. 
u What shall we do in your Majes- 
ty’s room ?” 

u We will light all the lights, I 
will go to bed, and you shall read 
the litanies to me.” 

u No, I thank you, Sire.” 
u You refuse then ?” 
u Certainly.” 

u You abandon me, Saint-Luc, 
you abandon me.” 

u No : on the contrary, I will re- 
main with you.” 
u Ah, indeed !” * 

cc If you wish it.” 
u Certainly, I wish it.” 
u But on one condition, sine qua 
non ” 

• 4 What is it?” 

u On condition that your Majesty 
will send for music and women, so 
that we may eat, drink, and be mer- 
ry.” 

u Saint-Luc, Saint-Luc !” cried 
the King, frightened out of his wits. 

u Come,” said Saint-Luc, u I feel 
gay this evening. Will you do what 
I ask ?” 


But Henry made no answer. His 
mind, at times so sprightly and cheer- 
ful, was growing more and more 
gloomy, and seemed to be struggling 
with some secret thought which weigh- 


ed it down, like lead fastened to the 
claws of some noble bird to prevent 
it from taking its 
heavi 


flight toward 


:n. 


u 


Saint-Luc,” said the King at 
last, in a hollow voice, u do you ever 
dream ?” 


u Often, Sire.” 


u Do you believe in dreams 
u Of course I do.” 
u On what grounds ?” 
u Because they console us for the^ 
absence of reality. Thus, last night ^ 
I had a most delightful dream.” 
u What was it ?” 
u I dreamed that my wife — ” 
u You still think of your wife, 
Saint-Luc ?” 

u More than ever.” 
u Ah !” said the King with a sigh, 
and looking up to heaven. 

u I dreamed,” resumed Saint-Luc, 
u that my wife, all the while retain* 
ing her charming face, for my wif* 
is pretty, Sire — ” 

u Alas, yes,” said the King ; u Eva 
was pretty too, thou unhappy wretch, 
and she lost paradise for herself and 
for us.” 

u So that is the cause of your 
spite — but, to come back to my 
dream, Sire — ” 

u I, too, I had a dream,” said the 
King. u I dreamed — ” 

u My wife then, all the while re- 
taining her charming face, had take’n 
the wings and form of a bird, and 
immediately, in spite of wickets and 
iron bars, she had passed over the 
walls of the Louvre, and had come 
and tapped her pretty forehead 
against my window, with a charming 
little cry which I understood, and 
which said, ‘ Open, Saint-Luc, open, 
my dear husband.’ ” 

u And you opened ?” asked the 
King, in despair. 

u I believe I did,” said Saint-Luc, 
u and eagerly too.” 

“ Worldling !” 

u Worldling as much as you please, 
Sire.” 

u And did not you awake then ?” 
u No, Sire ; I took good care not 
to awaken — my dream was too de- 
lightful.” 

u And did you go on dreaming?” 
u As far as I could, Sire.” 
u And do you expect to-night — ” 
u To dream again. Yes, if it 
please your Majesty, and for this 
reason I am compelled to decline 


) 


t 


IG DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


jour Majesty’s obliging offer to make 
me jj^ss the night reading prayers. 
If i am to pass the night awake, I 
must at least have an equivalent for 
my dream. Therefore, if your Ma- 
jesty will send for- music, and have 
the tables laid for supper — ” 

u Enough,” said the King, rising. 
u You are damning yourself, Saint- 
Luc, and you would damn me, were 
I to remain any longer in your com- 
pany* Good night, Saint-Luc. I 
trust that heaven will send you, not 
a dream to tempt you, but salutary 
thoughts which will induce you to- 
morrow to join with me in penance 
and efforts for the salvation of your 
soul.” 

u I am doubtful about it, Sire, and 
I am even so certain of the contrary, 
that I would advise your Majesty to 
show the door this very evening to 
the rake, Saint-Luc, who is deter- 
mined to die impenitent.” 

u No,” said Henry, u no : for I 
hope that between this time and to- 
morrow, grace may reach his heart as 
it' has reached mine. Good night, 
Saint-Luc — I will pray for you.” 
u Good night, Sire, I will dream 
for you.” 

And Saint-Luc commenced singing 
the first stanza of a song something 
more than licentious, which the King 
himself was in the habit of singing, 

O O' 

when in good humor. This hastened 
the departure of the King, who re- 
turned to his own room, murmuring 
by the way : 

u Lord my God, thy anger is just, 
for the world is growing worse and 
worse, wicked as it has been at all 
times.” 


fTH 




CHAPTER VII. 

HOW THE KING BECAME AFRAID Of 
HAVING BEEN AFRAID, AND HOW 
CHICOT BECAME AFRAID OF BEING 
AFRAID. 

v. 

On leaving Saint-Luc, the King found 
all the court assembled, according to 
his orders, in the great gallery. 

He bestowed a few favers on his 
friends, sent D’O, D’Epernon, and 
Schomberg into the provinces, threat- 
ened Maugiron and Quelus to punish 
them in the event of any fresh quar- 
rel with Bussy, gave his hand to the 
latter to kiss, and warmly embraced 
his brother. 

Towards the Queen he was prodi- 
gal of praise and tenderness, so much 
so indeed, that the courtiers drew 
from his manner the most favorable 
auguries, touching the succession to 
the crown. 

Meanwhile, the usual hour of re- 
tiring was approaching, and it was 
easy to see that the King was delay- 
ing it as long as possible. At last, 
the clock of the Louvre struck ten : 
Henry looked slowly round ; he 
seemed to be selecting from among 
his friends a suitable person to fill 
the office of reader which Saint-Luc 
had refused. 

Chicot was watching him. 
u I see,” said he, with his cus- 
tomary boldness, u you are looking 
my way this evening, Henry. Are 
you thinking of bestowing on me a 
good abbacy, worth ten thousand 
francs of annual income ? Tu-dictble ! 
what a prior I should make ! Give, 
my son, give me one, I beg of you ?” 
u Come with me, Chicotf” said the 
King. u Good-night, gentlemen, 1 
am going to bed.” 

Chicot turned round to the court 
iers, turned up his moustaches, and 
put on an air of roguish condescen- 
sion, rolling his large eyes with an ex- 
pression of tenderness. 

u Good-night, gentlemen,” said he, 
mimicking Henry’s voice, u good- 
! night, we are going to bed.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


47 


Tlie courtiers bit their lips ; the 
King blushed. 

u Ho, there!” said Chicot, u my 
barber, my hairdresser, my valet-de- 
chamber, and do not forget my 
cream.” 

u No,” said the King : u none of 
these this evening. To-morrow will 
be the first day of Lent, and I am 
doing penance.” 

u I regret the cream,” said Chicot. 

The King and the fool betook 
themselves to the room we have al- 
ready described. 

u So, ho, Henry !” said Chicot, 
u I am the favorite now — I am the 
indispensable — I am, I must suppose, 
a beauty — handsomer than Cupido 
Quelus. ” 

u Silence, fool,” said the King; 
u and gentlemen of my toilet, leave 
the room.” 

The valets obeyed ; the door closed 
after them, and Henry and Chicot 
were left alone. Chicot looked at 
Henry with bewilderment. 

u Why do you dismiss them ?” 
asked the fool. u They haven’t 
greased us yet. Do you intend to 
grease me with your royal hands ? 
Well, one penance is as good as ano- 
ther !” ^ J 

Henry made no reply. All the 
attendants had left the room, and 
Henry and his fool were looking at 
each other. 4 

u Let us pray,” said Henry. 

u No, thank you,” said Chicot ; 
u there is no fun in that. If it was 
for that you brought me here, I had 
rather return to the wicked company 
I left behind me. Good-bye, my son, 
good-night.” 

u Remain where you are,” said the 
King. 

u Oh, oh !” said Chicot, straight- 
ening himself up ; u this is getting 
to be tyrannical. You are a despot, 
a Phalaris, a Dionysius. I weary 
here. All day long you have kept 
me flogging away at my friendsjfwith 
blows of a bull’s pizzle, and^now, 
this evening, it would seem you want 
to play at the same game ! 


let us begin, Henry — we are only, two, 
and every blow will tell.” 

u Hold your tongue, you miserable 
gabbler,” said the King, u and be- 
think yourself of repentance.” 

u Here we are ! So, ho ! I repent ! 
And pray, what would you have me 
repent of? Of having made myself 
a monk’s fool ? Conjiteor — I repent : 
mea culpa , ’tis my fault ; my exceed- 
ingly great fault.” 

“No sacrilege, wretch !” cried the 
King, “ no sacrilege.” 

u Well,” said Chicot, u I had just 
as soon be shut up in the lion’s cage, 
or in the baboon’s cage, as with a 
mad King. I will go away.” 

The King locked the door and re- 
moved the key. 

“ Henry,” said Chicot, u I don’t 
like your looks at all, and I give you 
notice, that unless you let me out, I 
will call, I will scream, I will break 
the door — I will smash the windows.” 
u Chicot,” said the King, in a most 
melancholy voice, u Chicot, you have 
no sympathy.” 

u Ah, I understand !” said Chi- 
cot, — a you are afraid of being alone 
Tyrants are always so. Build your 
self twelve chambers, like Dionysius, 
or twelve palaces like Tiberius 
Meanwhile, take my long sword, and 
let me take away the scabbard. What 
do you say to that — hey ?” 

At this word, an expression of in- 
tense fear passed over Henry’s coun- 
tenance ; then, after a strange shud- 
der he rose and perambulated the room. 

Such was the agitation of Henry’s 
body, such the paleness of his face, 
that Chicot began to think that the 
King was really ill ; and after seeing 
him make the round of the room some 
three or four times, and with an air 
of great distress and keen agony, he 
said to him : 

“ Come, my son, what is the mat 
ter ? Let Chicot, your friend Chicot, 
know your sorrows.” . 

^The King paused in front of his 
, and gazed at him 
Yes,” said he, “ you are my 
my only friend.” 


Don?t j Friend ; 



48 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


4< There is,” said Chicotj u the 
priory of Valencay, which is vacant.” 
“Listen, Chicot,” resumed the 
King — u you are wary and discreet.” 
“ Then, there is the priory of Pi- 
thiviers, famous for its lark pies.” 

“ Notwithstanding your buffoon- 
ery,” continued the King, “ you are 
& man of courage.” 

u Then give me a regiment, not a 
priory.” 

“ You are even a man of good 
counsel. ” 

“ Then, don’t give me a regiment, 
make me a councillor. But no, when 
think of it, I had rather have a 
dment or a priory. I would not be 
'uncillor, for I should have to be 
ys of the King’s opinion.” 
fold your tongue, Chicot, hold 
tongue — the hour approaches — 
irrible hour !” 

There you are — at it again !” 
Touwill sec — you will hear!” 
Tear what — see what ?” 

Wait, and you will learn strange 
gs ; wait.” 

No, no, 1 will not wait. Your 
ner and mother must have been 
cten by a mad dog, on the fatal night 
/hich produced your existence.” 
u Chicot, you are brave.” 
u I boast of so much. But I don’t 
put my courage to such trials as you 
propose, tu-diable ! When the King 
of France and of Poland screams in 
the night, so as to scandalize the 
whole palace, I, poor devil, am ca- 
pable of disgracing his company. 
Good-bye, Henry — call your officers, 
your Suisses, your halbert -men, 
and let me be off. The deuce take 
invisible dangers, and all dangers 
which I don’t understand.” 

“ I command you to remain,” said 
the King, with authority. 

“ Well, you have a droll way of 
quelling fear ! I am afraid — I am 
afraid, i tell you ! Help — fire.” 

And Chicot, doubtless to be out @f 
danger, got up on the table. m 

u Come, knave,” said the K$g, 
i as it is the only way to silence you, 
r will tell you all.” 


“ Ho, ho,” said Chicot, rubbing 
his hands and descending carefully 
from his table, “ only give me due 
notice, and I will be prepared. We 
will settle some of them,” added he, 
drawing his long sword. u Tell away, 
my son, tell away. I suppose it is 
some crocodile — ahem — Tu-diable . 
The blade is good, I pare my toe- 
nails with it every week, and my toe- 
nails are pretty tough — You were say- 
ing, Henry, that it was a crocodile” — 
And Chicot fixed himself in a large 
arm-chair, and placing his drawn 
sword between his legs and entwin- 
ing his two legs around the blade, like 
the snake around Mercury’s Caduceus, 
prepared to listen to his master’s ac- 
count of the monster. 

u Last night,” said Henry, “ I was 
asleep” — 

“ And I also,” said Chicot. 
u When a sudden puff of wind 
passed over my face.” 

u The beast was hungry,” said Chi- 
cot, “ and was licking thy grease.” 

“ I half awoke, and felt my beard 
stand on end with terror under my 
mask.” 

“You are making me shudder most 
delightfully,” said Chicot, doubling 
himself up in his chair, and leaning 
his chin on the pommel of his sword. 

“ Then,” said the King, in a fee- 
ble and trembling voice, which scarcely 
reached Chicot’s ears, “ then a voice 
filled the room with a reverberation 
so painful, that it shook me to the 
very base of my brain.” 

“ The voice of the crocodile.! I re- 
collect now that the traveller, Marco 
Polo, says that the crocodile has a 
terrible voice ; imitating the voice of 
children. But never fear, my son, 
if he comes we will kill him.” 

“ Listen.” S| 

“ Pardieu ! I am listening,” said 
Chicot, stretching himself out as if he 
was moved by a spring. “ I am as 
m8%mless as a stump, and mute as a 
carp > Go on.” 

Henry continued in a dismal lone : 

1 Miserable sinnner,’ said the 
voice”— 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


49 


• 

u Bah !” interrupted Chicot, 44 the 
voice spoke. It wasn’t a crocodile 
then 

44 4 Miserable sinner,’ said the 
voice, 4 I am the voice of the Lord 
thy God.’ ” 

Chicot made a bound, and gathered 
himself up in his chair. 

u The voice of God !” he exclaim- 
ed. 

44 Ah, Chicot,” replied Henry, 
44 ’tis a dread voice !” 

44 Is the voice a fine one ?” asked 
Chicot. And is it like the sound 
of a trumpet, as the Scriptures 
say ?” 

44 4 Art thou there? Dost thou 
hear?’ continued the voice. 4 Dost 
thou hear, hardened sinner ? Wilt 
thou persevere in thine iniquities ?’” 
44 Really, really, really,” said Chi- 
cot, 44 the voice of God is very like 
that of your people.” 

44 This was followed,” resumed the 
King, 44 by a thousand other re- 
proaches, which, I protest, it was very 
terrible to me to hear.” 

44 But still,” said Chicot, 44 go on, 
my son ; tell me a little more of 
wha’ the voice said, that I may see 
if Heaven was well informed.” 

44 Reprobate !” cried the King, 44 if 
you doubt, I will have you chastis- 
ed.” 

44 1,” said Chicot, 44 1 don’t doubt 
at all. The only thing that surprises 
me is that Heaven should have de- 
layed so long. It has become rather 
patient since the Deluge. Be this as 
it may, it would seem, my son,” con- 
tinued Chicot, 44 that you were terri- 
bly frightened.” 

44 Terribly,” said Henry. 

44 You had good reason for it.” 

44 The perspiration stood on my 
forehead, and the marrow was frozen 
in my bones.” 

44 Just like Jeremiah ; it was quite 
natural ! On my word as a gentle- 
man, I don’t know what I should have 
done in your place. And it was then 
that you called out, hey ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 And people came ?” 

4 

ft 

ft 


44 Yes.” 

44 And they looked everywhere ?” 

44 Everywhere.” 

44 And did they find the Lord ?” 

44 Everything had passed away.” 
44 King Henry first of all, who 
had fainted. That was very dread- 
ful.” 

44 So dreadful that I sent for my 
confessor.” 

44 That was well done — He came, 
did he riot ?” 

44 On the instant.” 

44 Come now, my son, be frank, and 
contrary to your usual practice, tell us 
the truth. What does your confessor 
think of this revelation ?” 

44 He trembled.” 

44 1 can well believe that.” 

44 He made the sign of the cross, 
and directed me to comply with the 
will of God and repent.” 

44 That was very well ; there can 
never be any harm in repenting. 
But what did he say of the vision it- 
self?” 

44 That it was a providential warn- 
ing — that it was a miracle — and that 
I was bound to look to the safety of 
the State. Accordingly, this morn- 


m g 




44 What did you do this morning 
my son ?” 

44 1 gave a hundred thousand livres 
to the Jesuits.” 

44 Very good.” 

44 And mangled my own skin, and 
the skins of my young lords, with the 
discipline.” 

44 The very thing ! And next ?” 

44 And next ! what do you mean, 
Chicot ? I am not now addressing 
myself to the jester, but to the friend, 
to the cool, brave man.” 

44 Well, Sire,” said Chicot, serious- 
ly, 44 1 think that your Majesty had 
the nightmare.” 

44 You think so ?” 

44 I think that your Majesty was 
dreaming, and that you will not do so 
again, if you will avoid keeping your 
mind fixed upon such subjects.” 

44 Dreaming,” said Henry, shaking 
his head. 44 No, indeed, I was wide 


50 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


i, 


awake — I will answer for that, Chi- 
cot.” 

u You were asleep, Henry.” 
u I was so far from being asleep, 
that my eyes were open.” 

“ I sleep myself with my eyes 
open.” 

u Yes, but I could see with my 
eyes, which does not happen when one 
is really asleep.” 

u And did you see ?” 
u I saw the moon through the win- 
dow panes, and I saw the amethyst 
on the pommel of my sword, spark- 
ling there where you are sitting, Chi- 
cot, sparkling with a dim lustre.” 
u And the lamp, what had become 
of it ?” 

“ It had. gone out.” 
iC A dream, my son — nothing but a 
dream.” 

u Why refuse to believe, Chicot ? 
Is it not written that the Lord speaks 
to kings, when he would make some 
great change upon the earth ?” 

u Yes, he speaks to them, no 
doubt,” said Chicot, “but they never 
hear him.” 

“ What makes you so incredulous ?” 
u Your having heard so well.” 
i L Well, do you understand now why 
I have detained you ? ’’asked the King. 
u Yes, pardieu ,” said Chicot. 
u I want you to hear the voice 
yourself.” 

“That it may be taken for a jest if 
I repeat what I hear. Chicot is such 
a mere cipher, such a fool, that no one 
will believe what he says. Not ill- 
eonceived, my son.” 

“ Why not believe, my dear Chi- 
cot, that I am confiding this secret to 
one in whom I place unlimited trust ?” 
“ Oh ! don’t lie, Henry — if the 
voice should come this falsehood will 
not fail to be east in your face, and 
you have quite enough of iniquity to 
answer for already. But no matter ; 
I will accept the commission. I 
shouldn’t be sorry to hear this voice 
from Heaven ; perhaps it may say 
something touching my own affairs.” 
“ Well, what is to be done ?” 
u You must go to bed, my son.” 


“ But if on the contrary” — 

“ But me no huts !” 

“ Nevertheless” — 

“ Do you imagine that by any 
chance you can prevent the voice of 
God from speaking, by sitting up all 
night ? A King is only taller than other 
men by the height of his crown, and 
when he is bare-headed, believe me, 
Henry, he is but the same in stature, 
and sometimes even shorter than they. ” 
“ That is all very well,” said the 
King, “ you will stay then.” 

“ That is a settled thing.” 

“ Well, I will go to bed.” 
f “ Good.” 

#“ But you will not go to bed, will 
you ?” 

“ I have'no thought of it.” 

“ I will, however, only take off my 
pourpoint.” 

“ Do as you will.” 

“ I will keep my breeches on.” 

“ The precaution is excellent.” 

“ And you ?” 

“ Will stay where I am.” 

“ And you will not go to sleep ?” 

“ Ah ! for that matter, I cannot 
promise. Sleep is like fear, my son. 
It is a thing entirely independent of 
the will.”, 

“ You will do all you can at least 
to keep yourself awake.” 

“ I will pinch myself. Rest easy 
on that point. Besides, the voice 
will awaken me.” 

“ Do not jest with the voice,” said 
Henry, who had one leg in bed, and 
who now withdrew it a^ain. 

O 

“ Come,” said Chicot, u must I put 
you to bed r” 

The King heaved a deep sigh, and 
after having looked anxiously into 
every corner of the room, he crept 
shuddering into his bed. 

“ There,” said Chicot, “ it is my 
turn now and he stretched him- 
self out in his arm-chair, arranging 
the bolsters and pillows all around 
and behind him. 

“ How do you find vourself now, 
Sire ?” 

“ Not so badly,” said the King, 
■ “ and you ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


u Very well. Good night, Henry.” 
“ Good night, Chicot, but do not 
go to sleep.” 

“ Peste ! I have no thought of such 
a thing,” replied Chicot, yawning as 
if he would have dislocated his jaws. 

Then both of them shut their eyes 
— the King in order to feign sleep, 
Chicot in order to go to sleep in good 
earnest. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THE VOICE OF THE LORD MADE 

A MISTAKE AND DISCOURSED WITH 

CHICOT, THINKING TO ^DISCOURSE 

WITH THE KING. 

The King and Chicot remained for 
the space of ten minutes or thereabout 
motionless ancT silent. Suddenly the 
King arose with a start, and sat bolt 
upright. 

At the movement and the noise, 
which broke upon that pleasant sen- 
sation of somnolence which precedes 
sleep, Chicot did the same. 

The two glared on each other 
with wide eyes of terror. 

“ What is it?” asked Chicot in a 
low voice. 

“ The cold breath,” answered the 
King in a voice lower yet. “ The 
cold breath !” 

At the same instant one of the ta- 
pers, in the hand of the golden 
satyr, went out, then a second, and 
then a third, and then the last. 

“ Oh, oh !” said Chicot, “ what a 
strange breath !” 

Chicot had not pronounced the 
last syllable of these words, when the 
lamp went out in its turn, and the 
apartment was only lighted by the 
faint embers on the darkening hearth. 

“ Break-neck work this,” said Chi- 
cot, standing up on his feet. 

“ He is about to speak,” said the 
King. “ He is about to speak.” 

u Listen to him then,” said Chi- 
cot.” 


5k 

And, in very deed, at the same in- 
stant a hollow whistling voice became 
audible at intervals, proceeding ap- 
parently from the space between the 
bedside and the wall. 

“ Hardened sinner,” it said, “ art 
thou there ?” 

“ Yes, yes, Lord,” replied Henry, 
whose teeth were chattering in his 
head with terror. 

“ Oh, oh !” said Chicot, “ the 
voice has got a very bad cold, to have 
come from heaven ; but never mind 
that, it is still fearful.” 

“Dost thou hear me?” said the 
voice again. 

“Yes, Lord, and I listen, bowed 
down to the earth by thine indigna- 
tion,” murmured Henry. 

“Dost think,” continued the voice, 
“ that thou wert obeying me this day, 
.when playing all those outward mum- 
meries, which thou hast played, with- 
out the slenderest impression on thy 
heart ?” 

“ Well said,” Chicot cried, “ a 
capital hit that.” 

The King’s hands sounded as he 
clapped them together fervently, while 
Chicot crept softly to his bedside. 

“ W ell,” murmured Henry, “ well, 
wretched fellow, dost believe now ?” 

“ Wait a while,” said Chicot. 

“ What would you do ?” 

“ Silence. Now listen to me ; get 
out of thy bed very gently, and let 
me get into it in thy place.” 

“ What is that for ?” 

“In order that the wrath *of the 
Lord may fall upon me the first.” 

“ Do you think that on that ac- 
count he will spare me?” 

“At all events we can try.” 

And with affectionate urgency he 
drew the King gently out of the bed, 
and lay down himself gently in his 
place. 

“Now, Henry,” said he, “ go and 
sit down in my arm-chair, and let me 
alone to do as 1 will, myself.” 

Henry obeyed. He was beginning 
to suspect something. 

“ Thou dost not answer me,” re- 
sumed the voice, “which is a sign 

' w 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


58 


that thou art hardened in 
sins.” 



u Oh pardon, pardon, Lord,” said 
Chicot, snuffling through his nose like 
the King. 

Then stretching himself sideways 
toward Henry, he whispered : 

“This is droll, do you understand, 
my son, that our good Lord should 
not recognize Chicot.” 

u True, indeed,” said Henry, “what 
can that mean ?” 

“ Wait, wait. Thou shalt see lots 
more fun.” 

“ Wretch !” cried the voice. 

“ Yes, Lord, yes,” replied Chicot. 
“ Yes, I am a hardened sinner, a 
frightful sinner.” 

“ Confess thy crimes then, and re- 
pent.” 

“ I confess,” said Chicot, “ that I 
have been a great traitor toward my 
cousin of Conde, whose wife I seduc- 
ed, and I repent of that.” 

“ But what are you talking about 
that for ?” murmured the King. “ Do 
you hold your tongue ; that has been 
forgotten long ago.” 

o O o 

“ Ah ! right ;” whispered Chicot, 
4 let us go on with something else.” 
“ Speak,” said the voice. 

“ I confess,” resumed the false 
Henry, “ that I have been a great 
rogue toward the Poles, who chose me 
for their King, since I forsook them 
one fine night, and brought away with 
me all the crown diamonds, and Ire- 
pent of this also.” 

“ Ah ! thou dolt !” muttered Hen- 
ry, “ why recall this, when it also is 
forgotten ?” 

“ I must go on humbugging him,” 
said Chicot ; “ let me alone, I tell 
you.” 

“ I confess,” said Chicot, “ that I 
did my cousin D’Alen^on out of the 
throne of France, which belonged to 
him of right, since I had formally re- 
nounced all pretensions to it, when I 
accepted the throne of Poland ; and 
this again I repent.” 

“ Rascal!” muttv?ed the King. 

“ That is not yet enough,” said 
the voice. 


“ I confess that I had a secret un 
derstanding with my good mother 
Catherine, by which to banish my 
brother-in-law the King of Navarre 
from France, after having destroyed 
all his friends, and my sister, Queen 
Marguerite, after having destroyed 
all her lovers, for all which I am most 
sincerely penitent.” 

“ Ah ! brigand that thou art I” * 
said the King, clinching his teeth 
tight in his anger. 

“ Sire, do not let us provoke the 
Lord by trying to conceal from him 
that which he knows as well as we 
ourselves.” 

“ It is not the question now about 
politics !” cried the voice. 

“ Ah ! we have come to that, have 
we ?” said Chicot, in a lamentable 
voice. “ My morals are to be called 
in question, are they not?” 

“ Certainly they are,” replied the 
voice. 

“ It is true, oh my God,” conti- 
nued Chicot, st^ll speaking in the 
character of the King, “ that I am 
very effeminate, very lazy, very soft, 
a very great simpleton, and a very 
great hypocrite.” 

“ That is true,” said the voice. 

“ I have ill-treated women. My 
own wife especially, a very excellent 
woman too.” 

“ One ought to love his wife as 
himself, and to prefer her to all 
things,” cried the voice in a fury. 

“ Ah !” cried Chicot in tones of 
despair. “ If that be the case, I 
have sinned greatly.” 

“ And thou hast made others sin 
likewise by setting them the example. ” 

“ That is true — that again is too 
true.” 

“ Thou hast narrowly missed get- 
ting that poor Saint-Luc damned.” 
u Bah !” said Chicot — “ art thou 
very sure, oh Lord, that I have not 
got him quite damned r” 

“ No. But it may well turn out 
so in the end, not to him only, but to 
thee, if thou do not send him home 
to his family to-morrow morning at 
the very latest ” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


53 


u Ah ha!” said Chicot to the 
Kin<? in a whisper ; u it seems to me 
that the voice is very well disposed 
toward the family of Cosse.” 

u And if thou do not make him a 
duke, and his wife a duchess, in re- 
compense for the days during which 
thou hast made him a widower in an- 
ticipation,” continued the voice. 

u And if I do not obey?” answer- 
ed Chicot, suffering a suspicion of in- 
tended resistance to be drawn from 
the tones of his voice. 

u If thou do not obey,” thundered 
the voice, growing terribly loud and 
menacing, u thou shalt be stewed 
through all eternity in the huge cal- 
dron, wherein Sardanapalus, Nebu- 
chadnezzar, and the Marechal de 
Retz are waiting for you.” 

Henry III. uttered a lamentable 
groan. At this menace his terrors 
had taken possession of him more 
completely than before. 

“ Peste !” said Chicot, turning 
toward the King, “ dost thou remark 
how strong an interest heaven takes in 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc ? One would 
say that he had Providence bottled 
up in the sleeves of his doublet, may 
the devil carry me away else !” 

But Henry heard not the buffoon- 
eries of Chicot ; or if he did hear 
them, they failed altogether of reliev- 
ing his apprehensions. 

u I am lost,” he murmured in tones 
of utter bewilderment. u I am lost 
soul and body, and this voice from on 
high will be the death of me !” 

u Voice from on high ! hey ? ” 
said Chicot. u Well, for this time 
at least, thou art mistaken. Voice 
from one side, to say the very most 
of it.” 

u What do you mean by voice L from 
one side ?’ ” asked Henry. 

ii Why, certainly! Do you not 
hear then, my son, that the voice 
comes out of this wall ? Henry, the 
Lord must have taken lodgings in the 
Louvre. Most probably, like the 
Emperor Clovis V., he is passing 
through France on his way down into 
the infernal regions !” 


u Atheist ! Blasphemer !” 
u It is a great honor to you, Hen- 
ry. Wherefore 1 make you my com- 
pliments and seriously congratulate 
on it. But I must confess that 1 find 
you singularly cold and insensible to 
the honor that is done to you. What, 
the Lord in the Louvre, and only 
separated from you by one thin par- 
tition, and thou dost not go and visit 
him ? Come, come, Valois, I do not 
recognize thee in this, and to say 
truth thou art barely polite.” 

At this moment a vine branch, 
which had fallen down and smoulder- 
ed in the chimney corner, caught in a 
bright blaze, and flashed up, casting 
a glaring light through all the room, 
and illuminating Chicot’s counte- 
nance. That countenance wore so 
remarkable an expression of gay mer- 
riment and ironical humor, that the 
King was fairly astonished. 

u What!” he said, u hast thou 
the heart to jest and gibe now — Dost 
thou dare ?” 

u Yes. I do dare,” said Chicot; 
u and thou shalt dare too in a few 
minutes, or the plague take me. Rea- 
son with yourself, my son, and do as 
I direct you.” 

u But what would you have me go 
and see ?” 

u Whether the Lord is actually in 
the next room or no.” 

u But if the voice should speak 
again r” 

u And am not I here to answer it 
It is in fact all the better that I should 
continue to talk in thy name, which 
will lead the voice to imagine that 
you are still here, since it has taken 
me for you all the time. For it is 
deliciously credu]ous, is this divine 
voice, and it is not so well acquainted 
as it might be with its company 
What ? Do not you see that during 
a whole quarter of an hour that I hav i 
been bleating here, it has not recof;- 
| nized me ? This is truly disgraceful, 

| it seems to me, for a dhine intelii- 
| gence.” 

Henry frowned. Chicot had said 
so much, that at length his extraordi- 


54 


DIANA OF MSRIDOR; OR, 


nary credulity was beginning to yield 
to argument and reason. 

u I think that thou art in the 
right, Chicot,” said he, u and I have 
a great inclination to — ” 

u Well then, go! go !” said Chi- 
cot, pushing him. 

Henry opened the door of the cor- 
ridor which communicated with the 
next room very softly. That room, 
it must be remembered, was that for- 
merly occupied by the nurse of Charles 
X., and now inhabited for the mo- 
ment by Saint-Luc. But he had not 
made four steps in the passage before 
he heard the voice redoubling its re- 
proaches, and Chicot answering it, 
with the most piteous lamentations. 

u Yes,” said the voice, u thou art 
as inconstant as a woman, as soft and 
luxurious as a Sybarite, as corrupt as 
a Pagan.” 

u Oh! dear!” whimpered Chicot. 
u Oh ! dear ! oh ! dear ! It is not 
my fault, good Lord, if thou hast 
made my skin so soft, my hands so 
white, my nose so delicate, and my 
intellect so fickle. But it is all over 
now, good Lord ; henceforth I will 
wear nothing but shirts of sackcloth, 
I will bury myself in a dunghill like 
Job, and I will eat cpwdung like Eze- 
kiel.” 

Nevertheless Henry continued to 
advance along the corridor, wondering 
as he observed that in proportion as 
the voice of Chicot decreased, the 
voice of the other became louder, and 
fhat voice now actually appeared to 
issue from Saint-Luc’s chamber. 

Henry went and was about to knock 
*t the door, when he perceived a ray 
of light streaming in through the 
large keyhole of the chiselled lock. 

On a sudden, having stooped to 
the level of the keyhole, and looked 
into it, Henry turned fiery red with 
rage, although he had been very pale 
before, raised himself erect, and rub- 
bed his eyes, as if to make himself to 
sue more distinctly that which even 
peeing he could scarcely believe to be 
true. 

u Par la Mordieu /” he murmured. 


u Is it possible that they can have 
dared to play upon me to such an 
extent as this ?” 

In fact, this is what he beheld as 
he looked through the keyhole. 

In a corner of the room, Saint-Luc, 
dressed in a pair of silken drawers 
and a dressing-gown, was blowing 
through a long tube or sarbacand the 

o o 

menacing words which the King had 
mistaken for the utterance of a divine 
voice ; and close beside him, leaning 
on his shoulder, a young woman in a 
white transparent dress was snatching 
the sarbacand from his hands at in- 
tervals, and breathing through it, 
swelling her voice to the utmost in 
order to render loud and menacing all 
the strange fantasies the origin of 
which might be read before they were 
uttered in her mischievous eyes, and 
on her laughing lips. Then she would 
burst into fits of wild and merry laugh- 
ter every time she took down the sar- 
bacand from her mouth, while Chicot 
bewailed himself, and whimpered, so 
that the King almost believed that it 
was himself he heard, so perfect was 
the imitation and so natural the snuf- 
fling through the nose, deploring and 
lamenting, even from the corridor. 

“ Joan de Cosse in Saint-Luc’s 
chamber, a hole in the wall, and a 
mystification planned against me !” 
muttered Henry. u But they shall 
pay me for this very dearly.” 

And at a more injurious phrase 
than any which he had yet heard 
breathed through the sarbacand *>y 
Madame de Saint-Luc, Henry recoil- 
ed a pace, and with a kick very mas- 
culine for one so effeminate and soft, 
dashed the door open, with its hinges 
half unhung and its lock shivered to 
pieces. Joan, who was half naked, 
ran and hid herself behind the cur- 
tains, with a terrible cry burying her 
head in the bed-clothes, and wrapping 
herself as well as she could in the 
draperies. 

Saint-Luc, with the sarbacand in 
his hand, pale with terror, fell on ki3 
knees before the King, who was* no 
less pale with anger. 


THE Lady of monsoreau. 


55 


44 Ah !” cried Chicot, from the 
farther end of the royal apartment, 
u ah ! mercy! mercy! I appeal to 
the Virgin Mary, I am growing weak, 
l am dvinr.” 

But in the room by the side of the 
King’s chamber, no one of the actors 
in that scene had presence of mind 
enough to utter a word, burlesque as 
it was and ridiculous to its smallest 
details, for so rapidly did its dramatic 
situations develope themselves, that 
tlmy literally had no time for words. 

Henry broke that silence by one 
word, that impassibility by one ges- 
ture. 

u Begone,” he exclaimed, snatch- 
ing the sarbacand from the hands of 
Saint-Luc, and shaking it over his 
head, as if he would have stricken 
him with it, in a fit of fury wholly 
unworthy of a king. 

But then it was Saint-Luc’s turn ; 
and he started to his feet as suddenly 
as if a spring of steel had launched 
him upon his legs. 

u Sire,” said he, u you have no 
right to strike me, unless it be to 
strike otf my head. I am a gentle- 
man.” 

Henry hurled the sarbacand down 
upon the floor with terrible violence. 
Some person picked it up ; that person 
was Chicot, who having heard by the 
noise that the door was broken down, 
judging that a mediator would not be 
out of place, ran up at the same mo- 
ment. 

He left Henry and Saint-Luc to 
settle their matters as best they 
might, and, running himself to the 
bed-curtains, beneath which he had 
immediately guessed some one to be 
concealed, pulled out the poor lady 
all in disarray, grief, and terror. 

u Look here ! look here !” he cried. 
u Adam and Eve, after the first trans- 
gression. And thou wilt drive them 
out, Henry?” he added, questioning 
the King with a keen glance. 

u I will,” said Henry. 

u Wait then, and I will be the ex- 
terminating angel.” 

o o 

And, without waiting for a reply, 


he cast himself between the King and 
Sainc-Luc, and outstretching the sar- 
bacand, as if it had been a flaming 
sword, over the heads of the two cul- 
prits, he cried out — 

u This is my paradise, which you 
have lost by your disobedience. I 
forbid you from entering it again.” 
Then, leaning down toward Saint- 
Luc’s ear, as he stood with the body 
of his wife enfolded in his arms, in 
order to protect her, if need should 
be, against the fury of the King, 
he whispered to him in a quick low 
voice : 

u If you have a good horse, ride 
him to death, but be sixty miles 
hence, at least, before this hour to- 
morrow.” 

% 

CHAPTER IX. 

HOW BUSSY SET HIMSELF TO SEARCH 
OUT HIS DREAM, MORE AND MORE 
CONVINCED THAT IT WAS A REAL- 
ITY. 

Bussy had returned home with the 
Duke of Anjou, both of them in deep 
meditation ; the Duke, because he was 
afraid of the consequences of his vi- 
gorous conduct, to which he had been 
in some sort urged by Bussy ; and 
Bussy, because the events of the past 
night occupied his mind above all 
other considerations. 

u After all,” said he to himself, 
when he returned to his own house, 
after paying innumerable compli- 
ments to the Duke of Anjou on the 
energy which he had displayed ; 
u after all, thus much is certain, that 
I was attacked, that I fought, that I 
got wounded, inasmuch as I know the 
last fact sensibly, since I feel my 
wound here in my left side, which is, 
in truth, -very painful. Now, while I 
was fighting, I saw, as clearly as I 
now see the cross of the Petit Champs 
yonder — I saw, I am certain, the 
wall of the Hotel des Tournelles , and 


56 


DIANA OF MERIDOR: OR, 


the crenatcd towers of the Bastile. 
It is on the Place de la Bastille, a 
little way in front of the Hotel des 
Tournelles , between the Rue Saint- 
Catherine and the Rue Saint- Paul, 
that I was attacked, since I was on 
my way to the Faubourg Saint- An- 
toine, in order to receive the Queen of 
Navarre’s letters. It is there, then, 
that I was attacked, near to a door 
which had a barbican, through the 
apertures of which, when the gate had 
once closed behind me, I saw the face 
of Quelus distinctly, with his pale 
cheeks and fiery eyes. I was in an 
alley, at the end of that alley was a 
staircase. I felt the first step of that 
staircase, inasmuch as I stumbled 
against it. Then I fainted. After a 
while, I recovered from my dream, 
which commenced at the moment of 
my fainting, and found myself with 
a very cool wind blowing upon me, 
extended on the talus of the Temple 
foss, between an Augustin monk, a 
butcher and an old woman. 

44 Now, what can be the cause that 
all my other dreams should pass so 
rapidly away, and vanish completely 
from my memory, and that this, on 
the contrary, should remain engraved 
on my soul, the more distinctly the 
longer it is since my dreaming it ? 

44 Ah!” said Bussy to himself, 
“ that is indeed the mystery.” 

And he stopped at the door of his 
own h^use, which he had but that 
moment reached, and leaning against 
the wall, closed his eyes. 

44 ’Sdeath,” said he, 44 it ^impos- 
sible that a mere dream should leave 
such an impression on my spirit. I 
see the chamber with its tapestry 
woven with figures, I see the ceiling 
richly painted, I see my bed of oak, 
curiously carved, with its curtains of 
white damask and gold. 1 see the 
picture, nay, I see the fair woman, 
although I am by no means so certain 
that the picture and the woman are 
not all one thing. To conclude, I see 
the good-humored and merry face of 
the young physician, whom they 
brought to my bed-side with his eyes 


blind-folded. Here, after all, are a 
good many facts. Let me recapitu- 
late them. A piece of tapestry, a 
ceiling, a carved bedsteid, curtains of 
white damask and gold, a picture, a 
woman, and a physician. Come, 
come, I must set myself to search out 
all this ; and, unless l am the most 
stupid of all brutes, I shall assuredly 
find it out. 

44 And first of all,” continued Bus- 
sy, still speaking to himself ; 44 in 
order to meet all the circumstances 
of the case, let me take a dress more 
suitable for a night rambler, and then, 
ho ! for the Bastille !” 

In virtue of this resolution, ’which 
was not very unreasonable on the part 
of a man who had very narrowly escap- 
ed assassination at the same spot on 
the preceding day, and who was now 
going, on the day after the attack, to 
examine that very same neighborhood, 
at that very same hour, Bussy caus- 
ed a valet, who knew a little about 
surgery, and who happened to be in 
his employment, ready for any emer- 
gency, to secure the bandage of his 
wound, drew on a pair of long boots 
which came up to the middle of his 
thighs, selected his finest sword, 
wrapped himself in his mantle, got 
into his litter, stopped it at the end 
of the Rue du Roi de Sidle, got out 
of it, ordered his people to wait for 
him, and going into the Grand Rue 
Saint -Antoine, took his way directly 
to the Place de la Bastille. 

It was about nine o’clock in the 
evening ; the vesper bell had rung, 
and the streets of Paris were rapidly 
growing lonely and deserted. Thanks 
to the thaw which had been produced 
that day by a little sunshine and an 
atmosphere a little warmer than usual, 
the pools of frozen water and the 
muddy holes, which were scattered 
through it, had converted the Place 
de la Bastille into a tract interspersed 
with lakes and precipices, among 
which the path, of which we have 
spoken, wound like a causeway. 

Bussy began carefully to examinQ 
his latitude, and take his bearings. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


57 


He soon found the place where his 
horse had been stricken down, or, at 
least, thought he had found it. He 
then went through all the various 
movements of retreat and attack 
which he had made. He fell back 
toward the wall, and examined every 
door, in order to discover, if possible, 
the recess against which he had lean- 
ed his back, and the wicket through 
which he had gazed at Quelus. 

But all the doors had each a recess, 
and almost all had wickets. Each 
had, moreover, an alley-way within it, 
a coincidence the less extraordinary 
when it is remembered, that, at this 
period, a porter being an unknown 
appendage to the house of ordinary 
citizens, about three-quarters of the 
doors in Paris had alley-ways within 
them. 

u Pardieu !” said Bussy, with 
heart-felt annoyance ; u if I should 
have to knock at each one of these 
doors, and to interrogate each one of 
the lodgers ; if I should have to spend 
a thousand crowns in prevailing on 
valets and old women to speak, 1 will 
learn what I desire to learn. There 
are fifty houses here, and, at the rate 
of ten houses a night, it will only 
occupy me five nights to accomplish 
it. I will decidedly wait, however, 
until the weather becomes a little 
drier.” 

Bussy had just finished his solilo- 
quy when he perceived a little light, 
flickering and pallid, which approach- 
ed him, reflected at times from the 
pools and puddles, as is a beacon 
from the bosom of the sea. This 
light, however, advanced slowly and 
unequally, stopping from time to 
time, now starting nway to the left, 
now again to the right, now tripping 
and stumbling up and down, now 
dancing hither and thither like a 
will-o’-the-wisp, and then again re- 
suming its calm march, only, after a 
few moments, to return to its past 
vagaries. 

u Decidedly,” muttered Bussy to 
himself, u this Place de la Bastille is 
a curious sort of a place. Neverthe- 


less, what matters it ! We will wait 
and see.” 

In order to await what should hap- 
pen next, Bussy wrapped himself up 
in his mantle and ensconced himself 
in the deep angle of a door-way, and 
stood there quite at his ease. The 
night was as dark a one as is often 
met with, and it was impossible to 
distinguish any object at ten pacos’ 
distance. The lantern still conti- 
nued to draw nearer and nearer, per- 
sisting in its ridiculous evolutions ; 
but, as Bussy was by no means su- 
perstitious, he was perfectly satisfied 
that this was none of those wandering 
fires which were accustomed so to ter- 
rify the travellers of the middle agos, 
but simply and purely a large cresset 
hanging by a ring from some hand or 
other, which hand was, in its turn, 
connected with some mortal body. 

In fact, after waiting some few 
minutes, his conjecture proved to be 
perfectly correct ; and, at some thirty 
paces’ distance, more or less, from 
his person, Bussy could discern a dark 
form, long and slender, in the atti- 
tude of a gallows, which form assum- 
ed little by little the shape and pro- 
portions of a human being, carrying 
a lantern in its left hand, now ex- 
tended directly in front, now on one 

side, and sometimes hamring down 
' © © 

quietly from its hip. That living 
figure appeared, at the first sight, to 
belong to the honorable fraternity of 
drunkards, for it is to drunkenness 
only that the strange circuits it was 
describing, and the singular species 
of philosophy with which it blundered 
into all the mud-holes and splashed 
into all the pools of water, could rea- 
sonably be ascribed. 

Once it befel the figure even to slip 
on a sheet of ice, which had not been 
completely thawed, and a - hollow 
echoing sound, accompanied by an 
involuntary movement of the lan- 
tern, which plunged suddenly down- 
ward, led Bussy to the conclusion 
that the night rambler, feeling him- 
self insecure on the support of his two 
feet, had sought out for himself a 


58 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


more solid centre of gravity. Under 
this impression, Bussy began to en- 
tertain something of that species of 
respect which all noble spirits feel 
toward belated drunkards, and ho 
was even going forward to offer his 
assistance to the supposed votary of 
Bacchus, as Master Ronsard would 
have called him, when ho perceived 
tho lantern recovering itself with 
greater steadiness and stability than 
could have been expected from foro- 
going appearances. 

u Come,” muttered Bussy to him- 
self, u h(^re goes for another adven- 
ture, according to all appearances.” 
And, as the lantern continued to 
approach in a direct line toward his 
own person, he buried himself deeper 
yet in the embrasure of the door. 

The lantern came yet ten paces 
nearer, and then, by the light which 
it diffused, Bussy discovered, strange 
to tell, that the man who carried it 
wore a bandage over his eyes. 

u Par dieu!” said he, u here is a 
singular idea, to play at blind-man’s- 
buff with a lantern in one’s hand, 
especially in such weather, and on such 
a sort of ground as this. I wonder 
whether, by some chance, I am not 
beginning; to dream once more !” 

o O 

Bussy waited yet a while, until the 
man with the bandage had made yet 
five or six more steps. 

u God forgive me !” said Bussy, 
u I believe that he is talking all by 
himself. Come, he is neither a 
drunkard nor a madman, but a 
mathematician, who is seeking the 
solution of some problem.” 

This last observation was suggested 
to the spectator by the last words 
which the man with the lantern had 
pronounced, and which had reached 
Bussy ’s ear. 

u Four hundred and eighty-eight, 
four hundred and eighty-nine, four 
hundred and ninety,” muttered the 
man with the lantern, u it cannot 
be very far from this place.” 

And then this mysterious personage 
raised the bandage which covered his 
eyes with one hand, and, finding that 


he was directly in front of a house, he 
walked straight up to the door. 

When he was quite close to the 
door he examined it closely. 

u No,” said he, u this is not it.” 
Then he replaced the bandage over 
his eyes and resumed his march, again 
recommencing his calculations. 

u Four hundred and ninety-one, 
four hundred and ninety-two, four 
hundred and ninety-three, four hun- 
dred and ninety-four. I must be 
close to it now,” said he. 

And, for the second time, he re- 
moved his bandage, and, coming up 
to the door next to that within the 
recess of which Bussy had concealed 
himself, he examined it with no less 
attention than he had done the first. 

u Hum ! hum!” said he, u this 
might be it very well. No, yes, yes, 
no. These devils of doors are all of 
them exactly alike.” 

u That is the very reflection which 
I have just been making myself,” 
muttered Bussy between his teeth 
u which I must say gives me some sort 
of consideration for this poor mathe 
matician.” 

The mathematician replaced hi? 
bandage once again, and proceeded 
on his way. 

u Four hundred and ninety-five, 
four hundred and ninety-six, four 
hundred and ninety-seven, four hun- 
dred and ninety-eight, four hundred 
and ninety-nine. If there be a door 
opposite to me now, that must be it,” 
said the seeker. 

And, in fact, there was a door, 
and that door was the very one in 
which Bussy had concealed himself. It 
came to pass therefore that, as soon 
as the supposed mathematician raised 
his cresset to the height of a man’s 
face, and lifted up the bandage from 
his eyes, he found Bussy and himselt 
standing directly front to front. 
u Well, what now?” said Bussy. 
“Oh!” said the night rambler, 
recoiling a pace or two. 
u Hold !” said Bussy. 
u It is not possible !” cried the un- 
known. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


59 


ic Yes, it is — only it is devilish ex- 
traordinary. So you are the surgeon, 
hey?” 

44 And you are the gentleman ?” 

44 Exactly so.” 

44 Jesu ! what a chance !” 

44 The surgeon,” continued Bussy, 
44 who yesterday evening dressed the 
breast of a gentleman who had re- 
ceived a sword-thrust in his side.” 

44 In his right side ?” 

44 That is it. I recognized you on 
the instant. It is you who have a 
soft hand, so very light, and at the 
same time so very skilful.” 

44 Ah, Monsieur, I did not expect 
to find you here.” 

44 What were you lookingfor, then?” 
44 For the house.” 

44 Oh ! you were looking for the 
house, were you?” said Bussy. 

44 Yes.” 

44 Y r ou are not acquainted with it, 
then ?” 

44 How the plague would you have 
me to be acquainted with it ?” replied 
the young man, 44 when they brought 
me to it with my eyes blindfolded.” 
44 They brought you to it with your 
eyes blindfolded, hey ?” 

44 Certainly they did.” 

44 Then you did actually come into 
this house, did you?” 

44 Into this house, or one of those 
adjoining it. I cannot tell precisely 
which, since that is what I am at this 
moment seeking to discover.” 

44 Good,” said Bussy, 44 then I was 
not dreaming.” 

44 What do you mean by you were 
not dreaming r” asked the young 
surgeon. 

44 1 must inform you, my dear 
friend, that I believed the whole of 
this adventure, with the exception of 
the sword-thrust, be it always under- 
stood, to be a dream.” 

44 Well,” said the young surgeon, 
44 you do not in the least astonish 
me by that observation, Monsieur.” 

44 Wherefore not ?” 

44 Because I myself suspected so 
much as this, that there was some 
mystery concealed under it.” 


44 Yes, my friend. There is a 
mystery, and a mystery which you 
will assist me to clear up,willyounot ?” 
44 I will with great pleasure.” 

44 Excellent, but first of all, let us 
have two words.” 

44 Say them.” 

44 What is your name ?” 

44 Monsieur,” said the young phy- 
sician, 44 1 will put no ill blood be- 
tween us. I know very well that, ac- 
cording to all rule, and in agreement 
with the usages of the world, I ought, 
in reply to such a question, to draw 
myself up proudly on one leg, to rest 
my hand on my hip, and to say jaun- 
tily, 4 and pray what is yours, 
Monsieur, if you please ?’ But you 
have a long sword, and I have only a 
lancet. You appear to me, by your 
carriage and air, to be a noble gentle- 
man, and I must naturally appear to 
you a poor scoundrel, fori am wet to 
the bones, and muddy to my waist 
I have determined, therefore, to 
answer your question with perfect 
frankness. My name is Remy-le- 
Haudouin.” 

44 Very well answered, Monsieur. 
I thank you a thousand times. As 
for me, I am the Count Louis de Cler- 
mont, Lord of Bussy.” 

44 Bussy d’Amboise, the hero Bus- 
sy,” cried the young doctor, in very 
evident joy. 44 What, Monsieur, are 
you that famous Bussy, that Colonel, 
who — who — oh dear!” 

44 It is myself, Monsieur,” replied 
the gentleman, modestly, 44 and now 
that we are enlightened each as to the 

o 

identity of the other, for pity’s sake, 
satisfy my curiosity, all wet and all 
dirty as you are. ” 

44 The fact is,” said the vouncr 
man, looking down at his pantaloons 
all splashed and stained with mud, 
44 the fact is, that, like Epaminondas 
the Theban, I shall be forced to 
remain three days in my house, 
seeing that I have got but a single 
pourpoint, and a single pair of 
breeches. But pardon me, you did 
me the honor of asking me a question, 

I believe.” 


€0 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


<£ Yes, Monsieur, I was about to 
ask you how you came into this 
house.” 

££ It is a very simple question, and 
yet the answer to it is very compli- 
cated,” replied the young man. 

££ Let us hear all about it.” 

££ Monsieur le Comte, pardon me ; 
until this moment I have omitted to 
call you by your title.” 

££ Never mind the title, proceed 
with your narrative.” 

££ Monsieur le Comte, thus it is 
that it all feU out. I lodge in the 
Hue BeautreilliSj five hundred paces 
distant from this spot. I am a poor 
surgical student, but not unskilful, I 
assure you.” 

££ I can say something about that,” 
said Bussy. 

££ And one who has studied very 
hard also,” continued the young man, 
££ but all without obtaining any pa- 
trons. I am called, as I have told 
you, Remy-le-Haudouin. Remy 
from my baptismal name, and le- 
Haudouin, because I was born at 
Nanteuil-le-Haudouin. Now it is 
seven or eight days ago that a man 
received a bad cut a with a knife be- 
hind the arsenal. I sewed up the skin 
of his belly for him very neatly, after 
having tucked up into it his intestines, 
which had got out of their proper 
places. This job has made me a 
certain small reputation in the neigh- 
borhood, to which I consider it to be 
owing that I had the happiness of 
being awakened in the middle of last 
night,' by a pretty little delicate 
voice.” 

££ A woman’s voice ?” asked Bussy. 

££ Yes, but take care, young gentle- 
man, mere rustic as I am, I am very 
sure that it was the voice of a lady’s 
maid. I am well acquainted in that 
line, I can tell you, seeing that I have 
heard a great many more of their 
voices than of their mistresses’ ac- 
cents.” 

££ And what did you do then ?” 

££ I got up and opened my door. 
But hardly was I upon the landing- 
place, before two little hands, not the 


softest in the world, but not so very 
hard either, bound a handkerchief 
over my eyes.” 

££ Without saying anything ?” asked 
Bussy. 

££ Yes, indeed. Saying this, £ Come, 
do not try to see whither you are 
going. Be discreet, here is your re- 
ward.’ ” 

u And what was that reward ?” 

££ A purse containing several pis- 
toles, which she slipped into my 
hand.” 

££ Ah ha ! and what reply made 
you to that ?” 

“ That I was ready to follow my 
charming directress anywhither. I 
do not know whether she was charm- 
ing or not, but I thought that the 
epithet, even if it might be a little 
exaggerated, would do no harm.” 
u And you accompanied her with- 
out asking any questions, or exacting 
any conditions ?” 

u I did. For I have often read of 
adventures of that kind in books, and 
I have always observed that the con- 
sequences were somehow or other 
very agreeable to the surgeon. I fol- 
lowed her, therefore, as I have had 
the honor of informing you. She led 
me over some very hard ground, for it 
was freezing ; and I counted four 
hundred, four hundred and fifty, five 
hundred, and at length, five hundred 
and two paces.” 

££ Well done,” said Bussy, ££ that 
was prudent. Then you must be at 
the door now.” 

££ I cannot be far from it, at least, 
since this time I have counted four 
hundred and ninety-nine, unless that 
cunning gipsey, and I do suspect her 
of some such devilish trick, should 
have thought of leading me round 
about.” 

u Yes, but supposing she did think 
of that precaution,” said Bussy, ££ she 
must, or the devil is in it, have given 
some sign, or pronounced some name, 
which should have guided you.” 

££ None whatever.” 

££ And you were unable yourself to 
make any observations of any kind?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


61 


44 1 made all the observations thatj 
a man can make with fingers which 
are accustomed to do the work of 
eyes. That is to say, I observed a 
door studded with nails, behind the 
door an alley-way, a stair-case.” 

44 On the left hand ?” 

44 Precisely so. I even counted the 
steps.” 

44 How many were they ?” 

44 Twelve.” 

44 And the entrance immediately at 
the head of them ?” 

44 After a corridor, I think, for I 
heard three doors opened.” 

44 Very well.” 

44 Then I heard a voice. Ah! that 
was the voice of the mistress, sure 
enough, soft and low.” 

44 Yes, yes, that was hers.” 

44 Right, it was hers.” 

44 I am sure of it.” 

44 It is something always that you 
should be even sure of so much. Then 
I was pushed into the chamber in which 
you were lying, and they told me to 
take off my bandage.” 

44 Ah, that is it.” 

44 Then I discovered you.” 

44 And where was I ?” 

44 Lying on a bed.” 

44 On a bed of white damask 
wrought with flowers of gold ?” 

“ Yes.” 

. 44 In a chamber hung with ta- 
pestry?” 

44 You are wonderfully correct.” 

44 With a ceiling painted with 
figures ?” 

44 Right once more, and again be- 
tween the two windows — ” 

44 A portrait.” 

44 Admirably answered.” 

44 Representing a woman eighteen 
T twenty years.” • 
u Yes.” 

44 A blonde ?” 

44 True.” 

44 As beautiful as the angels ?” 

44 More beautiful.” 

44 Bravo ! what did you do then ?” 
u I dressed your wound.” 

44 And upon my word, very well you 
did dress it.” 


44 As well as I could, certainly ” 

44 Admirably, my dear Monsieur, 
for this morning the wound was almost 
closed, and of a nice rose color.” 

44 The thanks are due to a balm 
which I have composed, and which I 
believe to be a sovereign remedy, for, 
with a view to trying it, 1 have 
wounded my own flesh in different 
places, and by my faith, within three 
days at farthest, the wounds have beer 
closed up.” 

44 My dear Monsieur Remy,” criod 
Bussy, u you are a charming person, 
and I feel a very strong inclination 
toward you. But, come, tell me 
what happened next ?” 

44 Then you fell down fainting, and 
soon afterward the voice questioned 
me about you.” 

44 Whence did she question you ?” 

44 From out of a side chamber.” 

44 So that you did not see the 
lady ?” 

44 I did not see her.” 

44 And you replied to her ?” 

44 That your wound was not dan- 
gerous, and that within four and 
twenty hours it would scarcely be 
perceptible.” 

44 And did she appear well pleas- 
ed ?” 

44 Charmed ; for she cried out, 
4 What happiness, oh Mon Dieu P ” 

44 She cried out 4 what happiness !’ 
My d ear Monsieur Remy, I will make 
your fortune, and what next, what 
next.” 

44 Next to that, all was finished, since 
your wound was dressed, and I had 
then nothing more to do. Then the 
voice said to me, 4 Monsieur Remy,’ ” 
44 Then the person with the voice 
knew your name ?” 

44 Undoubtedly. In consequence 
surely of the adventure of the knife 
wound of which I spoke to you but 
now.” 

44 That is true. Well ! the voice 
said to you, 4 Monsieur Remy.’ ” 

4 4 4 Be a man of honor to the very 
end. Do not compromise a poor wo- 
man, who has brought herself into 
peril by an excess of humanity ; re- 


62 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


sume your bandage, and suffer your- 
self, without any trickery, to be con- 
ducted back to your own house.” 

“ Yo7i promised it ?” 

“ I did. I pledged my word.” 

“ And you kept it ?” 

“ You see that I did,” replied the 
young man, artlessly, “ and I am 
here now searching for the door.” 

“ Come,” said Bussy, “ that is a 
magnificent trait of conduct — a trait 
worthy of a very gallant man ; and 
although I am mad at the bottom 
that you should have done so, I can- 
not but say, c Take my hand, Mon- 
sieur Remy.’ ” 

And Bussy, full of enthusiasm, 
stretched out his hand to the young 
doctor. 

“ Monsieur,” said Remy, hesitat- 
ing and embarrassed. 

“ Take it, take it ; you are worthy 
to be a gentleman.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Remy,” it would 
be an eternal honor, merely to have 
touched the hand of the brave Bussy 
d’Amboise, but I have still a scruple.” 
“ And what may that scruple be ?” 
“ There were ten pistoles in the 
purse.” 

“ And what of that ?” 

“ It is a very large fee for a man who 
charges five sous for visits, when he 
does not pay his visits for nothing at 
all, and 1 was seeking the house, in 
order” — 

“To return the purse ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ My dear Monsieur Remy, that I 
assure you is an excess of delicacy ; 
you earned that money honorably, 
and it is most undoubtedly your own.” 
u Do you think so, indeed ?” said 
Remy, with a glow of inward de- 
light. 

u I will be answerable for it. This 
is the only difficulty in the way ; that 
it is not the lady who should have 
paid you, since I have not the honor 
of knowing her, and she is no better 
acquainted with me.” 

u That, then, is at least a reason 
why I should return it, as you cannot 
fail to perceive ” 


“ By no means. I only meant to 
express that 1 also owe you a debt.” 
“You owe me a debt ?” 
“Certainly; and I intend to dis- 
charge it, too. Come, what are you 
doing in Paris ? Let me hear ; tell 
me all about it. Make me your confi- 
dent, my dear Monsieur Remy.” 

“ What am I doing in Paris ? Upon 
my word, Monsieur le Comte, that is 
easily told. Nothing. But I should 
do something if I could get any pa- 
tients.” 

“ W ell. Y ou have fallen upon your 
feet marvellously well. I will give you 
a start whence you may make a good 
beginning. Do you like to have me ? 

I am a capital customer, I assure you ; 
for a day may seldom pass in which 
1 do not destroy, in the person of 
some one else, or some one else does 
not destroy in mine, what folks call 
the most noble work of the Creator. 
Come, will you undertake to cure all 
the holes which I drill in the skins of 
other people, and all the holes which 
other people drill in mine ?” 

“ Oh ! Monsieur le Comte,” re- 
plied Remy, “ my merit and my re- 
putation are too slender.” 

“Not* so. On the contrary you 
are the very man I want, or may the 
devil fly away with me ! You have 
a hand as li^ht as the hand of a wo- 
man, and with that the balm of Ferra- 
gus” — 

“ Monsieur !” 

“ You shall come and live with 
me. You shall have apartments 
in my house entirely your own : you 
shall have your own people also. Ac- 
cept my proposition, I entreat you, or 
indeed you will tear my heltrt asun- 
der. Monsieur, your task is not yet 
completed ; it is necessary that you 
should put on a second dressing on 
my wound, my dear Monsieur Remy.” 
“ Monsieur le Comte,” replied the 
young doctor, “ I am in such an ecs 
tasy that I know not how to reply, or 
how to express my rapture. I shall 
work ; I shall have patients.” 

“I tell you no; since I tell you 
that it is for myself alone that I en- 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


63 


gage you, and for my most particular 
friends. Now, can you recall any- 
thing else to your mind ?” 

“ Nothing else !” 

“ Well, then, assist me to recover 
myself, I entreat you.” 

“ How so !” 

“ Come, let us see, you are a man 
of observation ; you who count paces ; 
you who examine walls by the touch ; 
you who are critical in the sound of 
voices. How can it be, that after 
having my wound dressed, 1 should 
have transported myself from that 
house to the flank of the Temple 
Foss ?” 

“You!” 

“Yes, I ; my very self. Did you 
assist at all in my transportation 
thither ?” 

“ Assuredly not ! On the contrary, 
had I been consulted, I should have 
opposed it very vehemently, for the 
cold might have wrought you serious 
injury.” 

“ There I lose myself again,” said 
Bussy. “ Will you not search with 
me a little farther ?” 

“ I will do anything that you shall 
request of me, Monsieur ; but I am 
very much afraid that it is 'useless, 
for all these houses are exactly simi- 
lar each to the others.” 

“ Well !” said Bussy, “ if it be so, 
we must examine all this again by 
day-light.” 

“Yes. But by day-light we shall 
ourselves be seen.” 

“ Then we must take information 
by inquiring.” 

“Very well, Monsieur, I will in- 
quire.” 

“ And by so doing, we shall gain 
our end. Believe me, Remy, we 
have accomplished much already, for 
we are now two, instead of one, and 
we have acquired one reality ; and 
that is a great deal ” 


CHAPTER XI. 

WHAT SORT OF MAN WAS MONSIEUR, 

THE MASTER OF THE KING’S STAG- 

HOUNDS BRYAN DE MONSOREAU. 

It was not joy, it was ecstasy ; it 
was something nearly akin to deli- 
rium, which Bussy felt when he had 
attained to the certainty that the wo- 
man of his dream was a reality ; and 
that this woman had really bestowed 
on him that generous hospitality, of 
which he had retained within his bo- 
som a vague recollection only. 

Moreover, he would not suffer the 
young surgeon, whom he had elevated 
to the rank of his physician in ordi- 
nary, to leave him even for a moment. 
He made him, all muddy as he was, 
ascend into his own litter by his side. 
He was afraid that if he should let him 
out of his sight for a single moment, he 
would disappear like any other vi- 
sion He was resolved, therefore, to 
lead him to the Hotel de Bussy, to 
put him under lock and key, and to 
consider the ne^^morning, whether 
he should set him at liberty or no. 

The whole time spent in their re 
turn to his hotel, was consumed in 
asking new questions ; but the replies 
all travelled round within the same 
limited circle which we have been 
tracing but now. Remy le-Haudouin 
knew scarcely more than Bussy, if it 
were not that he, not having fainted, 
was certain at least that he had not 
been dreaming. But to any man who 
is beginning to be very much in love — * 
and Bussy had fallen in love at first 
sight — it is a great deal to have some 
person to whom he may talk of the 
object of his affections. Remy had 
not, it is true, seen the woman he had 
loved, but that was, if possible, ano- 
ther excellence in Bussy’s eyes, for 
he could now endeavor to persuade 
him that she was in all respects supe- 
rior to her portrait. 

Bussy was exceedingly anxious to 
devote the whole nicdit to conversation 

O 

on the perfections of the unknown 
lady ; but Remy began his doctorial 


64 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


functions by insisting that the wound- 
ed man should go to sleep, or at the 
very least should go to bed. Fa- 
tigue, and the pain he felt, were giv- 
ing the same counsel to the wounded 
gentleman, and these three powers 
united carried the day over his fan- 
tastical desires. 

But it was not until Bussy had 
himself installed his new fellow lodger 
in the apartments which had formed 
in old times his own habitation as a 
young man, and which were situated 
in a portion of the third floor of the 
Hotel de Bussy. Thereafter, be- 
ing well assured that the young sur- 
geon, satisfied with his new fortune, 
and the new lodgings which Previ- 
denee had prepared for him, would 
not attempt to escape clandestinely 
from his hotel, he went down into the 
splendid suite of apartments which 
he occupied himself on the first floor 
of his house. 

The following morning, on his first 
awakening, we found Remy afoot, 
and by his bed-side. The young 
man had passed the night in a state 
of incredulity as to the actual exist- 
ence of the* happiness which seemed 
to have fallen down upon him from 
heaven, and he was awaiting until 
Bussy should be awakened, to satisfy 
himself that he in his turn had not 
been dreaming. 

u Well,” added fifisssy, u how do 
you find yourself this morning ?” 

u Wonderfully well, my dear Escu- 
lapius ; and are you satisfied on your 
part ?” 

u So well satisfied, my dear Pa- 
tron, that most assuredly I would not 
exchange my fortunes with those of 
King Henry the Third, although he 
ought, during the journey which he 
made yesterday, to have gained a 
huge step in his progress toward hea- 
ven. But this is not the question, 
now. The question is to examine this 
wound.” 

u Look at it, then.” 

And Bussy turned himself over on 
his side in order to give the young 


surgeon an opportunity to remove the 

dressing. 

Everything was going on as well as 
it was possible ; the lips of the wound 
were rose-colored, and were now al- 
most closed. Bussy, in his happi- 
ness, had slept well, and sleep and 
happiness had proved themselves 
rare assistants to the skill of the chi- 
rurgeon, who had from this time forth 
very little more to do. 

u Well !” asked Bussy, u what do 
you say to this, now, my Master Am- 
broise Pare ?” 

u I say that I dare not confess to 
you that you are very nearly cured, 
lest, you should send me back to my 
Rue Beautreillis, within four hun- 
dred paces of the famous mansion.” 
u Which we shall certainly discov- 
er ; shall we not, Remy ?” 
u I think so, indeed.” 
u Thou canst say so much now , 
canst thou, my child ?” 

u Pardon me,” said Remy, with 
tears starting to his eyes, u but you 
thoidd me, I think, my lord.” 

a Remy, I thou those persons only 
when I love. Does it annoy thee, that 
I should have thou'd thee ?” 

u Far from it,” said the young man, 
snatching the hand of Bussy, and kiss- 
ing it. u Far from it, indeed. I 
was afraid that I had misunderstood 
you. Oh ! my lord De Bussy, are 
you then desirous of driving me mad 
with happiness ?” 

u No, my friend, I am only anx- 
ious that you should love me a little 
in your turn ; that you should feel 
yourself perfectly at home in this 
house, and that you should permit 
me, while you are making your alter- 
ations in your little menage y to be 
present at the presentation of the es - 
tortuaire* by the grand master of the 
Kind’s stag hounds. ” 

O O 

u Ah !” said Remy,” we are desi- 

* The estortuaire was a peeled wand of 
light wood, which the master of the hounds 
was wont to hand to the King, where w th 
to ward off the branches of trees in gallopping 
j through the forest. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


b 5 


rons of committing fresh follies, are 
we ?” 

“ Oh ! by no means ; on the con- 
trary, I promise you that I will be as 
reasonable as possible.” 

“ But you must get on horseback, 
must you not ?” 

“ By our lady ! that is a matter of 
absolute necessity.” 

“ And have you a very gentle horse, 
and one that canters very easily ?” 

“ I have four from which to choose.” 
“ Well. Take that one to-day 
which you would use whereon to 
mount the lady of the portrait. You 
understand me ?” 

“ Ah, do I not understand you ? 
Believe me that I do. Look you, 
Remy, you have now in truth found 
the way to my heart for ever. I was 
frightfully afraid that you would have 
prevented me from going to this chase 
to-day, for all the ladies of the court, 
and a good many of the most curious 
of the city dames, will be admitted 
to the spectacle. Now, Remy, my 
dear Remy, you comprehend that the 
lady of the portrait will naturally be 
there, as forming one either of the 
court or of the city nobility. She is 
not a simple burgher’s dame, that is 
most certain. Those delicate tapes- 
tries, that fine enamelled work, that 
painted ceiling, that bed of white 
damask and gold, in one word, all 
that luxury, which was, moreover, in 
such exquisite taste, reveals a woman 
of quality, or at the very least, a rich 
woman. What if I were to meet her 
there ?” 

“ Everything is possible,” replied 
Haudouin, philosophically. 

“ Except to discover the house 
again,” said Bussy, with a sigh. 

“ And to get into it, after having 
discovered it,” added Remy. 

“ Oh ! I never think of such things 
as that, until I am sure of my first 
step,” said Bussy; “but, indeed, 
when we shall have got so far as that, 
I have a method for gaining admit- 
tance.” 

“ And what may that be ?” 

5 


“ To get another good sword thrust 
administered to me.” 

“ Good,” said Remy, “ that gives 
me great hope that you will retain 
me still about your person.” 

“ Be at your ease on that head,” 
said Bussy. “ It seems to me al- 
ready that I have known you these 
twenty years, and, upon my word of 
honor as a gentleman, I should not 
well know how to exist without you.” 
The handsome face of the young 
practitioner was now lighted up with 
an expression of inextinguishable joy. 

“ Come,” said he, “it is all de- 
termined, you shall go out hunting 
in order to try to find the lady, and 
I will return to the Rue Beautreillis, 
in order to try to find the house.” 
“It would be curious if we were 
both to return successful from our 
researches.” 

And thereupon Bussy and Le Hau- 
douin separated rather like friends 
than like a master and a servitor. 

There was, in truth, on that day a 
grand hunting match in the wood of 
Vincennes, whereat the Bryan de 
Monsoreau, who had been appointed 
master of the King’s staghounds for 
some weeks, was to enter upon his 
functions. The procession of the 
previous day, and the severe peniten- 
tial commencement of the King, who 
seemed to be beginning his Lent on 
Shrove Tuesday, had led many peo- 
ple to doubt whether Henry would be 
present in person at this ceremonial. 
For, when the King fell into one of 
his fits of devotedness, he had some- 
times remained plunged in them for 
whole weeks together, to such a pass 
as not to go outside the gates of the 
Louvre ; even when he did not 
carry his austerity so far as absolutely 
to enter a convent. But, to the great 
astonishment of all the court, it was 
announced that the King had set 
forth at about nine o’clock in the 
morning for the Donjon of Vincennes, 
and was already running the deer 
with his brother, my lord the Duke 
d’ Anjou, and all his courtiers. 


56 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


The meeting-place of the hunt was 
at the round point of Saint Louis. 
Thus it was that they called, at that 
period, the junction of several of the 
wood-avenues, at which might still 
be seen, as tradition told, the famous 
oak whereat the martyr king was 
wont to sit in justice. All the world 
then had collected itself thither at 
nine o’clock, when the newly-appoint- 
ed officer, who was unknown as yet 
to almost all the courtiers, and who 
was therefore an object of almost 
universal curiosity, made his appear- 
ance, mounted on a magnificent black 
horse. 

All eyes were turned upon him 
forthwith. 

He was a man of about thirty-five 
years, of lofty stature. His coun- 
tenance was pitted with the small- 
pox, and his complexion shaded by 
tints of colors which varied accord- 
ing to the varying emotions which he 
felt ; so that persons who looked at 
him once, were somewhat disagreea- 
bly fascinated, and compelled, as it 
were, to gaze upon him with more 
earnest attention — an attention which 
rarely led to a more favorable appre- 
ciation of the man. 

For, in truth, the sympathies of 
men are called forth, for the most 
part, by first impressions. It is the 
frank eye, and the honest smile, which 
challenge the corresponding smile, 
and the responsive glance^of friendship 
from beholders. 

Clad in a close doublet of green 
cloth, richly laced with silver, girt 
with a silver baldric having the 
King’s arms emblazoned on its es- 
cutcheon, wearing on his head a barret 
cap with a long feather, brandishing 
in his left hand his boar-spear, and 
holding in his right hand the estortu - 
aire intended for the King, the Lord 
►of Monsoreau might have passed in- 
deed for a great seigneur, but hardly 
would have been esteemed a fine or 
courtly gentleman. 

u Fie ! what a hideous face you 
have brought us from your govern- 
ment, Monseigneur,” said Bussy to 


the Duke d’Anjou. u Are such the 
gentlemen, whom to select your favor 
wanders as far away as to the pro- 
vinces ? The devil take me, if such 
an one he found in Paris, which is, 
nevertheless, a very large place, and 
very reasonably well furnished with 
hideous gentlemen. They tell me, 
and I assure your Highness that I do 
not believe one syllable of it, that you 
absolutely insisted that the King 
should receive his master of the 
hounds from your selection.” 

u The Lord of Monsoreau has 
served me well,” answered the Duke 
d’Anjou, laconically, u and I seek 
to recompense him.” 

u Well said, Monseigneur. It is 
so much the finer a thing in princes 
to be grateful, as it is a thing rarer of 
occurrence. But if that be all, Mon- 
seigneur, I also have served you well, 
and I should wear the master-of-the- 
stag-hounds’ jacket in a very different 
fashion, I flatter myself, from that 
great goblin. He has got a red beard, 
too, I see, which I did not observe at 
first ; it adds, however, very greatly 
to his beauty.” 

u I never heard it said,” replied 
the Duke d’Anjou, u that it was ne- 
cessary to be moulded on the propor- 
tions of the Apollo, or of th Anti- 
nous, in order to hold employments in 
a court.” 

u You never heard that said, Mon- 
seigneur,” resumed Bussy, with the 
most perfect coolness ; u that is in- 
deed most extraordinary.” 

u I consult the hearts, not the 
faces,” replied the prince ; u services 
rendered, and not services promised.” 
u Your Highness will probably say 
that I am very curious, but I. am 
seeking, and that all to no purpose, 
what service this Lord of Monsoreau 
can possibly have rendered you.” 
u Ah ! Bussy,” said the prince, very 
sharply. u You have said it your- 
self. You are very curious. I will 
even say too curious.” 

u That is exactly like princes I” 
cried Bussy, with his accustomed 
license of speech u They always go 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


67 


on asking questions. You must an- 
swer them on all possible topics, but 
if you ask them one single question, 
on one single topic, they never dream 
of answering you.” 

u That is very true,” said the 
Duke d’ Anjou, u but do you know 
that you can easily satisfy yourself, 
if you are desirous of learning ?” 
“No.” 

“ Go and inquire this matter of 
M. de Monsoreau himself.” 

“ Look you,” said Bussy, “ upon 
my word, my lord, you are right, and 
with him who is but a simple gentle- 
man, there will be but one course 
left, if he refuse to answer me.” 

“ What will that be ?” 

“ It will be to tell him that he is 
impertinent.” And then, upon that 
answer, turning his back on the 
prince, without a moment’s considera- 
tion, before the eyes of all his friends, 
with his hat in his hand, he rode up 
to M. de Monsoreau, who, with his 
horse in the middle of the circle, 
himself the centre-point of the eyes 
of all men, was waiting, with wonder- 
ful gravity and self-possession, until 
the King should deliver him from the 
weight of all those eyes riveted full 
upon his person. 

Wher^ he saw Bussy coming up, 
with his face gay and animated, a 
pleasant smile on his lips, and his 
hat in his hand, his brow relaxed a 
little. 

“ Pardon me, Monsieur,” said 
Bussy, “ but I see that you are alone 
here in the midst of a crowd. Is it 
possible that the favor which you now 
enjoy should have made you as many 
enemies as you had friends, eight 
days before you were named grand 
huntsman of the King’s hounds ?” 

“ Upon my word, Monsieur the 
count,” replied the Lord of Mont- 
soreau, “ I could not exactly swear it, 
but at least I would make a bet upon 
it. But may I inquire to what I owe 
the honor of your coming to break 
upon this solitude of mine ?” 

“ Upon my word!” said Bussy, 
boldly, “ to the great admiration with 


which the Duke d’ Anjou has inspired 
me for you.” 

“ Ah ! how so, pray ?” 

“ By relating to me your exploit. 

That exploit, I mean, in return for ' 
which he procured your nomination 
as grand master of the royal hounds.” 

M. de Monsoreau turned hideously 
pale, so that the seams of the small- 
pox, which checkered his whole face, 
seemed to have becomo so many black 
points on his yellow skin. At the 
same time, he looked at Bussy with 
an expression which seemed to fore- 
bode a furious tempest. 

Bussy saw that he had made a false 
step ; but he was not a man to recoil 
from any step, on the contrary, he 
was one of those who, for the most 
part, make up for a piece of indiscre- 
tion by a piece of insolence. 

“ You say, Monsieur, that my lord 
has related to you my last exploit ?” 
replied the master of the staghounds. 

“ Yes, Monsieur,” answered Bussy, 

“ at full length, which has given me, 

I must confess it, a violent desire to 
hear the recital once more from your 
own mouth.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau grasped 
his boar-spear as if he would willing- 
ly have turned it into a weapon with 
which to assail Bussy. 

“ Upon my faith, Monsieur, I was 
perfectly well disposed to requite 
your courtesy by acceding to your re- 
quest ; but here, unfortunately, is the 
King coming up, which will prevent 
me from having the leisure to do so. 
But, if you will, we can defer it to a 
later period.” 

In fact, as he spoke, the King, 
mounted on his favorite horse, which 0 
was a beautiful, Isabel-colored Spa- 
nish jennet, was seen to come rapidly 
from the direction of the Donjon to- 
ward the round-point. 

Bussy, as he turned his eyes in a 
semicircle around the glittering ring, 
met the eyes of the Duke of Anjou, 
who was smiling his malignant and 
sinister smile. 

“ Master and man,” said Bussy to 
himself; “both of them make hide 


68 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


ous faces when they laugh ; what the 
devil can it he when they cry ?” 

The King loved fine and noble 
countenances, he was therefore very 
little delighted with that of Monsieur 
de Monsoreau, whom he had already 
seen several times, and whose looks 
by no means gained upon his favor 
by the repetition. Nevertheless he 
received the estortnaire at his hands 
with tolerably good grace, as with 
one knee bent to the ground, accord- 
ing to usage, he presented it to him. 

As soon as the King had received 
the peeled wand^ the master prickers 
announced that the deer was unhar- 
bored and the chase was fairly be- 
gun. 

Bussy had posted himself on the 
flank of the troop, so that he might 
see every one file along before him ; 
nor did he suffer any one to pass with- 
out examining all the ladies most at- 
tentively in the hope of detecting the 
original of the beauteous portrait. 
But it was all in vain. Many there 
were pretty, many beautiful, many 
most fascinating, among the women 
present at that, the inaugural chase 
of Monsieur the master of the stag- 
hounds. But he could not discover 
the charming creature of whom he 
was in pursuit. 

‘He was reduced therefore to the 
conversation and the company of his 
ordinary friends and acquaintances. 
Antraguet, who was always merry and 
full of mirthful gossip, was a great di- 
version to his melancholy. 

u We have a most hideous master 
of the staghounds,” said he to Bussy. 
u What think you of him ?” 

tc I think him truly horrible. What 
a pleasant family circle it will make 
for us, if the persons who have the 
honor to belong to him resemble him 
in appearance. Show me his wife, I 
pray you.” 

u The master of the staghounds is 
yet to be married, my dear fellow,” 
replied Antraguet. 

u And how know you that ?” 

From Madame de Veudron, who 
thinks him extremely handsome, and 


who would very gladly make him her 
fourth husband, as Lucretia Borgia 
made the Count of Este hers. See 
only how she spurs along her bay 
horse on the traces of M. de Monso- 
reau’s black charger.” 

u And of what country place is the 
lord ?” 

u Of lots of country places.” 
u In what provinces are they situ- 
ated ?” 

u In Anjou, and thereabout.” 
u He is very rich then ?” 
u They say that he is. But that 
is all. It would seem that he belongs 
only to the inferior nobility.” 

u And who is the mistress of this 
clodhopper ?” 

u He has no mistress. The worthy 
gentleman is anxious to be a solitary 
specimen of his race. But look you, 
Monseigneur, the Duke d’ Anjou is 
beckoning you with his hand. Go to 
him quickly.” 

u Ah ! ^fpon my word, the Duke 
d’Anjou must wait, this man has ex- 
cited my curiosity. I think him 
very singular. I do not know why 
it should be so — one has their fancies 
you know, sometimes, the first time 
we meet folks — I do not know, I say, 
why it should be so, but I feel that 
I shall have a crow to pluck with him 
one of these days. And then, the 
name of Monsoreau ?” 

u That name means Mount of 
Mice,” replied Antraguet. u That 
is the etymology of it. My old Abbs 
taught it to me this morning. In 
Latin it is Mons Soricis .” 

u Ah ! I ask no better,” said Bus- 

sy- 

u Ah ! hold — wait a moment,” 
cried Antraguet all on a sudden. 
u What is the matter now ?” 
u Why Livarot knows all about the 
thing.” 

o 

u What thing do you mean ?” 
u The Mons Soricis. These arc 
estates that lie near together.” 

“ Tell us all about this immediate- 
ly ; ho ! Livarot ! Liyarot ! come here 
immediately.” 

Livarot drew near to them. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


69 


1 Here quick, quick, Livarot. About 
the Monsoreau r” 

“ Well, what about him ?” asked 
the young man. 

“ Why, tell us all about the Mon- 
soreau.” 

“ Willingly.” 

“ Is it long ?” 

“No. I will make it short. In 
three words, I will tell you what I 
know of him, and what I think of 
him. I fear him !” 

“ Good ; and now you have told us 
what you think of him, tell us what 
you know of him.” 

“ Listen. I was returning home 
one evening” — 

“ That begins very terribly,” said 
Antraguet. 

CD 

“ Will you let me finish my story ?” 
“ Yes.” 

“ I was returning home one evening 

o O 

from my uncle D’Entragiies’ house 
through the wood of Meridor — it is 
about six months ago — when sudden- 
ly I heard a frightful shriek uttered, 
and immediately saw a white palfrey 
rush past me, with an empty saddle, 
and dash away into the brush-wood. 
I galloped on — I galloped on — and 
at length at the farther end of a long 
alley, I discerned a man on a black 
horse ; the alley was already dim and 
overcast by the first shades of ap- 
proaching night. He was not gallop- 
ing, he was flying. The same cry 
rang upon my ears again, and I dis- 
tinguished a woman on the saddle- 
bow, over whose mouth his hand was 
placed firmly. I had my hunting 
carabine with me. Well, you know 
that I am a good and practised shot 
with it. I took my sight, and upon 
my word, I should have killed him, but 
at the very moment when I pulled the 
trigger the match went out.” 

“ Well,” asked Bussy, “ and what 
then ?” 

“ Well, then I asked a wood-cutter 
whom I chanced to encounter, who 
# was that gentleman on the black 
. horse, who was carrying off the wo- 
man ? and he told me that it was M. 
de Monsoreau.” 

* 


“ Well !” said Antraguet, “ but it 
seems to me that this carrying off of 
women is a thing that men do some- 
times. Do they not, Bussy?” 

“ Yes,” said Bussy, “ but they al- 
low them to cry out as much as they 
please.” 

“ And the woman — who was she ?” 
asked Bussy. 

“ Ah ! as for that, it was never 
known.” 

“ Come,” said Bussy, “ he is de- 
cidedly an interesting character, and 
I begin to take a very strong interest 
in him.” 

“ As far as it goes,” said Livarot, 
“he enjoys a most atrocious reputa- 
tion, does this good lord.” 

“ Are any other exploits of his 
particularly quoted?” 

“No. None in particular. He 
has never even ostensibly done any 
great wrong. Moreover, as it is said, 
he is not a bad lord to his peasants, 
a fact which does not prevent all the 
country, which until to-day has had 
the honor of possessing him, from 
fearing him as it would fear fire. 
Moreover, a hunter equal to Nimrod, 
not truly, before God, but before the 
devil, never will any King have had 
a master of the staghounds equal to 
him. He will be better in all re- 
spects for this office than . Saint-Luc, 
who was destined in the first place to 
hold it, and from whom the Duke d, 
Anjou’s influence has whistled it 
away.” 

“ Thou knowest that the Duke d’ 
Anjou is still beckoning to you, Bus- 
sy ?” said Antraguet. 

“ Good ! let him beckon. And 
you, do you know what they say about 
Saint-Luc ?” 

“ No. Is he still the Kind’s pri- 
soner ?” asked Livarot, laughing. 

7 O -75 

“ He must be so, I fancy,” said 
Antraguet, “ seeing that he is not 
here. ” 

“ Not at all, my dear fellow. He 
set out at one o’clock this morning, 
for the estates of his wife.” 

“ Into exile ?” 

“ It looks marvellously like it.” 


70 


DIANA OF ME RID OR; OR, 


“ Samt-Luc exiled ? Impossible.” | 
u True as the gospel.” 

“ According to Saint Luke ?” 

“ No, according to the Marechal 
de Brissac, who told me so this morn- 
ing, with his own lips.” 

“ Ah ! that is something both new 
and curious. This will hurt Monso- 
reau.” 

“ I have hit it,” said Bussj. 

“ What have you hit ?” 

“ I have found it out.” 

“ What have you found out ?” 

“ The service which he did the 
Duke d’Anjou.” 

“ Really.” 

“ Yes, or may the devil fly away 
with me ! You shall see, however, 
all of you. Come along with me.” 
And with these words, followed by 
Livarot and Antraguet, Bussyputhis 
horse to the full gallop in order to 
overtake Monsieur, the Duke d’An- 
jou, who, tired of making signs to him, 
was now riding a few gun-shots in ad- 
vance of him. 

“ Ah ! Monseigneur,” he cried, as 
he came up with him, “ how precious 
a man is the Monsieur de Monsoreau !” 
“ Ah ! indeed. You have found 
it out, have you ?” 

“ It is incredible how precious he is.” 
“ You spoke to him about it, then ?” 
said the prince, still sneering at him. 

“ Certainly. Without taking it 
into consideration that he has a 
highly accomplished mind.” 

u And vou asked him what he had 
done for me ?” 

“ Certainly. 1 addressed him 
only to that end.” 

“ And did he answer you ?” asked 
the prince more merrily than before. 

“ On the very instant ; and that 
too with a degree of politeness, for 
which I cannot but feel myself infi- 
nitely beholden to him.” 

“ And what did he tell you, let us 
hear, my brave mountain-splitter?” 
asked the prince. 

“ He confessed to me, with all cour- 
tesy, that he is your Royal Highness’s 
purveyor.” 

u Purveyor of game ?” 


“No. Purveyor of women.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the 
prince, his brow growing dark on the 
instant. “ What is the meaning of 
this pleasant jest ?” - 

“ That signifies, my lord,' that he 
carries off women for you on his great 
black horse, and that as they ’are ig- 
norant, undoubtedly, of the honor in- 
tended for them, he puts his hands 
over their mouths to prevent them 
from crying out.” 

The duke bent his brows, clinched 
his hands furiously, turned pale as 
death with rage, and spurred his 
horse to so fierce a gallop, that 
Bussy and his friends were soon left 
behind. 

“ Ah ha!” said Antraguet. “It 

o 

seems to me that the jest is a good 
one.” 

“ And all the better,” said Liva- 
rot, “ because it does not seem to be 
very much of a jest to everybody.” 

“ The devil !” said Bussy, “ it ap- 
pears to me that I buckled him up 
pretty tightly then, this poor duke.” 
A moment afterward, they heard 
the Duke d’ Anjou’s voice crying 
aloud. 

“ Ho ! Bussy, where art thou ? 
come hither.” 

“ Here am I, Monseigneur,” said 
Bussy, as he drew near, and found 
the prince laughing violently. 

“ Ha ! Monseigneur,” he said, “ it 
seems that what I said to you has 
become very droll all on a sudden.” 
“No, Bussy. I was not laughing 
at what you said to me.” 

“ So much the worse. I should 
have liked it all the better had I been 
able to pretend to the merit of mak- 
ing a prince laugh who laughs so 
seldom.” 

“ I am laughing, my poor Bussy, 
at hearing you plead the false to ex- 
tort the true.” 

“ No ! the devil take me, Mon- 
seigneur, if 1 did not tell you the 
truth.” 4 

“ Well, since we are alone bv our- 

' •/ 

selves, tell me, will you not, where 
you got the pretty little story which 


THE LADY OF MONSOHEAU. 


71 


yon. just told us ? Where got you it, 

I say ?” 

u In the woods of Meridor, Mon- 
seigneur.” 

CT 

Again the prince turned pale ; hut 
this time he said nothing. 

u Decidedly,” murmured Bussy, 
u the duke is mixed up, somehow or 
other, in the affair of the ravisher on 
the black horse, and the lady on the 
white palfrey.” 

u Come, Monseigneur,” he added 
aloud, and with the words he laughed, 
because he saw that the duke laughed 
no longer ; u if there be a mode of 
serving you which pleases you more 
than all others, tell it to us, and we 
will profit by the information, even 
if we shall be compelled to labor 
conjointly with M. de Monsoreau.” 
u Par dieu! yes, Bussy,” said the 
duke. u There is one, and I will tell 
you what it is.” 

And the duke took Bussy aside. 
u Listen,” said he ; u by accident 
I met a charming woman in church ; 
inasmuch as some of her features, 
disclosed by a movement of her veil, 
called to my mind those of a woman 
whom I formerly loved greatly, I fol- 
lowed her and satisfied myself of her 
.abode. Her woman is gained over, 
and I have a key of the house.” 
u Well, up to this time, then, Mon- 
seigneur, it seems to me that every- 
thing works bravely.” 

u Wait a moment. She is said to 
be chaste, although her own mistress, 
although young and beautiful.” 
u Ah, Monseigneur, now I should 
say that we are entering the regions 
of romance.” 

u Listen. Thou art brave, and 
thou lovest me, according to what 
thou dost pretend.” g 

u 1 have my days for that.” 
u Thy days for being brave, or 
otherwise ?” 

u No ; my days for loving you or no.” 
u Well. Are you in one of your 
loving days now r” 

u If I can do your Highness any 
service, I will be in one of them. 
Let me hear more.” 


u Well. It is the question of do- 
ing that for me which ordinarily men 
do for themselves only.” 

u Ah ! ah !” said Bussy, u is it a 
question, Monseigneur, of my paying 
court to your mistress, in order to 
satisfy your Highness, whether she be 
in truth as true as she is beautiful ? 
I have no objection to that.” g 
u No. It is a question of finding 
out whether some one else is not pay- 
ing court to her.” 

u Ah ! indeed. That is more 
troublesome, Monseigneur. Let us 
have a full explanation.” 

u It is a question of your lying in 
ambush and letting me know who 
visits her.” 

u There is a man in the case, 
then ?” 

u I fear so.” 

u A lover or a husband ?” 
u One, at all events, who is jeal- 
ous.” 

u So much the better, Monseig- 
neur. ” 

u Why so much the better ?” 
u Because it doublesyour chances.” 
u I thank you. In the meantime, 
however, I wish to know who this 
man is.” 

u And you give it in charge to me 
to ascertain.” , 

u Yes, and if you will consent to 
do me this service” — 

u You will obtain for me the situa- 
tion of master of the staghounds, 
whenever it becomes vacant.” 

u Upon my honor, Bussy, I will 
promise to do so, the more willingly 
because I have never yet done any- 
thing for you.” 

u Ha ! Is Monseigneur aware of 
this ?” 

a For a long time I have been say- 
ing so to myself.” 

u In a whisper, as princes always 
say such things.” 

“ Well ?” 

u What, Monseigneur ?” 
u Do you consent ?” 

“ Consent to play the spy on the 
lady ?” 
u Yes.” 


72 


DI A.NA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


cc Monseigneur, the commission 
which you are so good as to offer me, 
is but moderately flattering, I con- 
fess. I would rather have some 
other.” 

u By my faith ! you offered to do 
me a service, and at the first word 
you fly off.” 

u Sy our Lady ! you propose to me 
the office of a spy, Monseigneur.” 

u Not so, the office of a friend. 
Moreover, I do not know that it is 
a sinecure which I offer you. Per- 
haps you will have to draw your 
sword.” 

Bussy shook his head. 

“ Monseigneur,” said he, u these 
are things which no one does well but 
for himself ; therefore, he does them 
for himself, even if he be a prince.” 

“You refuse my request, then ?” 

“Upon my word, Monseigneur, 
yes!’’ 

The duke bent his brow. 

“ I will follow thy counsel,” said 
he. “ I will go myself, and if I 
should be killed or hurt in the affair, 
[ shall say that I asked my friend 
Bussy to take on himself the giving 
or receiving of this thrust, and that, 
for the first time in his life, he was 
prudent.” 

“ Monseigneur,” replied Bussy, 
“ you said to me the other evening, 
4 Bussy, I hate all those minions of 
the King’s chamber, who, on every 
occasion, scorn and insult us. Thou 
must go to Saint-Luc’s wedding, and 
get us rid of them.’ Monseigneur, I 
went thither. They were five, I was 
one. I defied them. They laid an 
ambuscade for me ; they attacked me 
all at once ; they killed my horse, 
vet I wounded two, and knocked the 
third on the head. To-day you ask 
rne to wrong a woman. Pardon me, 
Monseigneur, this is not one of those 
services which a prince can impose on 
a gentleman, and I decline performing 
it. ” * 

“ Be it so,” said the Duke. “ I 
will do it, then, by myself, or with 
Auriily, as I began it.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Bussy, who 


felt as if a veil were raised from the 
eyes of his mind. 

“ What ?” 

“ Were you engaged upon this 
matter, Monseigneur, when, the other 
day, you observed the minions as they 
lay in wait for me ?” 

“ I was indeed.” 

“ And does your fair incognita live 
in the neighborhood of the Bastille r” 

O 

asked Bussy. 

“ She lives opposite to Saint 
Catherine’s.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ It is in a quarter of the town in 
which men are assassinated with great 
ease. You ought to know something 
about that.” 

“ Has your Highness been on the 
watch, then, since that day ?” 

“ I have. Last night.” 

“ And Monseigneur saw — ?” 

“ A man ferreting about in all the 
corners of the neighborhood, in order 
to ascertain, undoubtedly, whether 
any one was watching him. He saw 
me, I doubt not, and held himself en- 
sconced in a door-way.” 

“ And was that man alone, Mon- 
seigneur ?” 

“ For half an hour he was alone.” 
“ And, at the end of that halt 
hour ?” 

“ Another man came up and joined 
him with a lantern in his hand.” 

“ Ah, ha !” said Bussy. 

“ Then the man in the mantle,” 
resumed the prince — 

u Had the first man a mantle ?” 
Bussy interrupted him. 

“ Yes. Then the man in the man- 
tle and tl^e man with the lantern 
began to converse together, and, as 
they did not seem disposed to quit 
their post for the night, I gave it up 
to them, and returned home.” 

“ Disgusted with the results of this 
double trial ?” 

“ Upon my word, I must confess 
that it is so. So far that, before 
thrusting myself again into that house, 
which may well prove tG be a den of 
cut-throats — ” 

“ You would not be sorry,” inter- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


73 


rapted Bussy, “ to have the throat of 
one of your friends cut, first of all.” 
“ Or, rather, I would not be sorry 
that one of my friends, not being a 
prince, and having fewer enemies than 
I, and yet again being more accus- 
tomed to adventures of this sort, 
should study the reality of this peril 
and inform me of it.” 

“ In your place, Monseigneur, I 
would give up the pursuit of this wo- 
man,” said Bussy. 

“ Not I.” 

“ Wherefore not ?” 

“ She is too beautiful.” 

“ And yet you say that you scarce- 
ly saw her.” 

“ I saw enough of her to remark 
that she had magnificent fair hair.” 
“Ah!” 

“ Superb eyes.” 

“ Ah ! indeed !” 

“ A complexion such as I never saw 
in another, and a figure of perfect sym- 
metry.” 

“ Ah ! indeed ! indeed !” 

“ You can understand that one 
does not willingly abandon such a 
woman.” 

“ Yes, Monseigneur, I understand, 
and your situation moves me.” 

The Duke cast a sidelong glance at 
Bussy. 

“ Upon my honor !” said Bussy. 

“ Thou art jeering me.” 

“No ; and in proof of what I say, 
if it shall please Monseigneur to give 
me his instructions, I will commence 
my watch this very evening.” 

“ Thou hast repented, then, of thy 
first determination.” 

“ In truth, Monseigneur, there is 
no one in the world infallible, except 
our holy father, Gregory * tile Thir- 
teenth. Tell me, now, what you 
would have me to do.” 

“ You will have to conceal yourself 
at a short distance from a door, which 
I will show you, and, if a man enter, 
you will follow, and learn who he is.” 
“ Yes. But if, on entering, he 
should shut the door behind him ?” 

“ I told you that I have a key ” 

“ Ah f that is true. Thete is but 


one thing more to be apprehended. 
That I should follow the wrong man, 
and that my key should chance to fit 
the wrong door.” 

“ There can be no mistake. The 
door is the door of an alley-way, at 
the end of the alley-way there is a 
staircase on the left hand, you go up 
a dozen steps, and find yourself in a 
corridor.” 

“ How can you know all this, 
Monseigneur, since you have never 
been within the house ?”■ 

“ Did I not tell you that I had the 
waiting- woman in my pay ? She ex- 
plained the whole to me.” 

“ Pardieu ! what a comfortable 
thing it is to be a prince ! You are 
served at once in everything to your 
own desire. For my part, Mon- 
seigneur, I should have been forced 
to reconnoitre the house myself, to 
explore the alley, to count the steps, 
to examine the corridor ; all this 
would have occupied me a very long 
time, and who knows if, after all, I 
should have succeeded ?” 

“ You consent then, Bussy?” 

“ Can I refuse anything to your 
Highness ? Only, you will come with 
me, and show me the door.” 

“ That will be useless. As we re- 
turn home from the chase, we will 
make a circuit, we will enter by the 
Porte Saint-Antoine, and I will let 
thee see it with thine own eyes.” 

“ Excellently well, Monseigneur ; 
and what must I do with the man, if 
he should come ?” 

“ Nothing other than follow him 
until thou shalt have discovered who 
he is, and what leads him thither.” 
“It is a delicate task, this. 
And if, by any accident, this man 
should carry his discretion so far as 
to stop in the middle of his road, 
and thus cut short my investigations ?” 
“ In that case, I leave it to thee to 
push the adventure however thou wilt. ” 
“Your Highness authorizes me, 
then, to act as I would for myself.” 

“ Entirely.’’ 

“ I will do so, Monseigneur.” 

“ Not a word to our young lord* J ” 


74 


DIANA OF MEPJDCR; OR, 


u Not a word, on tlie honor of a 
gentleman.” 

u No one in company with thee?” 
u Alone, I swear to thee !” 
u Well ! it is agreed We return 
by the way of the Bastille, I show 
thee the door, thou comest to my 
house, I give thee the key, and this 
evening — ” 

u I take the place of Monseigneur. 
It is all said and settled.” 

Bussy and the prince thereupon 
rode away to join the chase, which 
M. de Monsoreau was conducting 
like a man of genius. The King was 
charmed with the manner in which 
that consummate sportsman had de- 
termined all the halts for refresh- 
ment, and disposed the relays. Af- 
ter having been hunted two hours, 
after having been pursued in a circuit 
of four or five leagues, after having 
been viewed twenty times, the animal 
returned and was taken on the very 
Spot whence he was unharbored. 

M. de Monsoreau received the con- 
gratulations of the King and the 
Duke d’ Anjou. 

u Monseigneur,” he replied to the 
latter, u I am but too happy to have 
merited your congratulations, since 
it is to you that I owe my place.” 
u But you know, Monsieur,” said 
the Duke, u that in order you may 
continue to merit them, you must set 
off this very evening for Fontain- 
bleau. The King purposes to hunt 
there to-morrow, and the following 
days, and one day is by no means 
too much time wherein to become ac- 
quainted with a forest.” 

u I know it, Monseigneur,” re- 
plied Monsoreau, u and my equipage 
is prepared already. I will set off 
this very night.” 

u Ah ! lo you now, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau,” said Bussy, u hence- 
forth for you there is no repose. You 
would be master of the royal hounds, 
— vou are master of them. You will 
have, therefore, iu consequence of 
the charge which you have undertak- 
en, fifty good nights less than belong 
to other men. Happily, however, 


you are not married, my good sir.” 
Bussy laughed as he said this 
The Duke turned a piercing glance 
on' the master of the hounds, and 
then, tossing his head the other way, 
rode off to make his compliments to 
the King on the improvement which 
had taken place in his health since 
the previous evening. 

As for Monsoreau, at the jest of 
Bussy, his face had been again over- 
spread by that hideous pallor, which 
rendered his aspect so sinister and 
terrible. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOW BUSSY DISCOVERED BOTH THE 
PORTRAIT AND THE ORIGINAL. 

The chase was ended at a little after 
four o’clock in the afternoon ; and at 
five o’clock, as if the King had antici- 
pated the wishes of the Duke d’An- 
jou, the whole court entered Paris by 
the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. 

M. de Monsoreau, under the pre- 
text of setting off on that very instant, 
had taken leave of the princes, and 
set forth with his equipage toward 
Fontainbleau. 

As he passed in front of the Bas- 
tille, the King pointed out to his 
friends the dark and menacing aspect 
of the fortress. It was a method 
which he took of reminding them what 
might occur should they, after being 
his friends, by chance become his 
enemies. Many understood this hint, 
and redoubled their deference toward 
his Majesty. 

During this time, the Duke of An- 
jou said to Bussy, in a whisper, as the 
latter rode along by his side : 

u Look out, Bussy, look out well 
to your right. Do you see that 
wooden house, which has a small 
figure of the Virgin sheltered in a 

a o 

niche beneath its gable? Run your 
eye along the same line and count 
four houses, that with the Virgin in- 
cluded.” 


THE LADY OF MON SORE AU. 


75 


<c Well ; I have done so.” 
u It is the fifth,’’ said the Duke. 
iC That which stands exactly facing 
Saint-Catherine’s. ” 

u I see it, Monseigneur. Hold ! 
hold ! see how, at the sound of our 
trumpets announcing the King, all 
the windows are filled with curious 
faces.” 

u Except that house which I show 
you, however,” said the Duke, u all 
the windows of which remain closed.” 
u But in one of the windows of that, 
too, the corner of a curtain is lifted,” 
said Bussy, with a violent throbbing 
of his heart. 

u Without affording us, however, 
the means of seeing anything. Oh ! 
the lady is well guarded, or guards 
herself well. At all events that is 
the house ; when we reach my hotel I 
will give you the key.” 

Bussy riveted his eyes on the nar- 
row opening left by the curtain ; but 
although he never withdrew his search- 
ing glance from it, he could see no- 
thing. 

When they returned to the Hotel 
d’ Anjou, the Duke gave the key of 
the house which he had designated, 
to Bussy, charging him again to keep 
good watch. Bussy promised that he 
would observe all the duke’s instruc- 
tions, and passed into the door of his 
own hotel. 

u Well ?” said he to Remy. 
u I must ask the same question of 
you, Monseigneur.” 

u You have learned nothing, then ?” 
u The house is as inexplicable by 
day as it is by night. I remain un- 
decided between five or six, which 
stand next to each other.” 

u Then,” said Bussy, u I think 
that I have been more fortunate than 
you, my dear le-Haudouin.” 

u How is that, Monseigneur ; have 
you then been on the search also ?” 
u No ; I merely passed through 
the street.” 

u And you recognized the door ?” 
u Providence, my dear friend, hath 
at times circuitous way3, and myste- 
rious combinations.” 


u And when shall I know whether 
you have had the happiness to disco- 
ver that of which you are in search ?” 
u To-morrow morning.” 
u And in the meantime, do you re- 
quire my services at all ?” 

u Not in the least, my dear Re- 
my.” 

u You do not desire me to follow 
you ?” 

u It is impossible that you should 
do so.” 

u Be prudent at least, my lord.” 
u Ah !” said Bussy, laughing, 
u that advice is useless. I am fa- 
mous for that quality.” 

Bussy dined like a man who knows 
not where or how he shall sup. Then, 
at eigdit o’clock, he selected the best 
of his swords, suspended a brace of 
pistols from his belt, in defiance of 
the ordinance which the King had just 
caused to be promulgated, and direct- 
ed his people to convey him in his 
litter to the extremity of the Rue 
Saint-Paul. 

Having arrived at the spot, he easi- 
ly recognized the house with the sta- 
tue of the Virgin, counted the. four 
next to it, and satisfied himself per- 
fectly that the third was the house 
designated. This done, having wrap- 
ped himself closely in a large dark 
colored mantle, he went and squatted 
himself at the angle of the Rue 
Saint^e-Catherine, perfectly determin- 
ed to wait two hours, and at the end 
of those two hours, in case no one 
should make his appearance, to take 
up the game on his own account. . 

Nine o’clock was striking from 
Saint Paul’s, when Bussy placed him- 
self in ambush. He had scarcely 
been there ten minutes before he saw 
two mounted men coming: in. through 
the darkness, by the gate of the Bas- 
tille. When they had come so far as 
to the Hotel des Tournelles, they 
stopped short. One of them dis- 
mounted, cast his bridle rein to the 
second, who in all probability was a 
lackey, and after seeing him return by 
the road by which they had come in, 
and losing sight of him and the two 


76 


DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


horses in the gloom, took his way 
to the house which had been placed 
under the superintendence of Bussy. 

When he had come within a few 
paces of the house, the unknown vi- 
sitor described a large circle around 
it, as if to survey the whole neighbor- 
hood. Then, thinking that he had 
assurod himself of being unwatched, 
he drew near the door, and entered it 
Bussy heard the sound of the door 
as it shut after him ; and then waited 
a few moments, lest the mysterious 
person should still be lying hid with- 
in the wicket. At length, after seve- 
ral minutes had elapsed, he advanced 
in his turn, crossed the street, opened 
the door, and instructed by expe- 
rience, closed it again without noise. 
This done, he turned about. The 
wicket in the door was at the height 
of his eye, and was, in all probabili- 
ty, the same by which he had looked 
forth upon Quelus. That was not 
all, however ; and Bussy had not 
come so far, in order to stop there. 
He advanced slowly, feeling on both 
sides of the alley-way, at the farther 
end of which he at length discovered 
the first steps of a staircase. 

There he stopped for two reasons : 
first of all he felt his limbs tremble 
under the violence of his emotion, 
and again he heard a voice say : 
u Gertrude, tell your mistress that 
it is I, and that I wish to come in.” 
The summons was uttered in a tone 
too imperious to admit of any refu- 
sal, and after the lapse of a moment 
Bussy heard the voice of a woman 
» replying to the other, 

u Pass into the drawing-room, 
Monsieur. Madame will come thi- 
ther and join you, shortly.” 

Then followed the sound of a clos- 
ing door. Bussy then thought of the 
twelve steps which Remy le-Haudouin 
had counted ; and he likewise counted 
twelve, and reached the landing-place. 

Remembering thereafter the corri- 
dor and the three doors, he made two 
or three steps forward, holding his 
breath, and extending his hand before 
him. A first door lay close under his 


grasp It was that by which the 
stranger had entered. He advanced 
yet a little further, found a second, 
groped about carefully, and, shudder- 
ing from head to foot with anxiety, 
felt a key in the lock, turned it gen- 
tly, opened the door and entered. 

The chamber into which Bussy had 
thus gained admittance, was com- 
pletely dark, with the exception of 
that portion of it, which received, 
through a side door, a reflected gleam 
from the drawing-room beyond it. 
That gleam fell upon a window, hung 
with two tapestried curtains, which 
caused the heart of the young man 
to throb with a joyous electrical 
excitement. 

His eyes wandered to that portion 
of the ceiling which was touched by 
the same bright gleam, and he recog- 
nized the mythological paintings which 
he had observed before. He extended 
his hand, and felt the carved bedstead. 

He had a doubt no longer. He was 
in the very chamber wherein he had 
awakened from his swoon, on the 
night of his receiving the wound by 
which he had won that mysterious 
hospitality. 

Another shivering thrill of passion- 
ate excitement shot through the veins 
of Bussy, as he touched that -bed, 
and felt himself enveloped in that de- 
licious atmosphere which is exhaled, 
from the bedroom of a young and 
lovely woman. 

Bussy wrapped himself in the bed 
' curtains, and listened. 

The impatient steps of the stran- 
ger, as he strode backward and for- 
ward in the drawing-room, fell clearly 
on his ears, and at times he could 
hear him muttering between his teeth : 

u Well ! will she ever come ?” 

At the close of one of these inter- 
jections, a door opened into the draw- 
ing-room. It seemed that it was one 
parallel to that wnich was already 
partly open. The carpet fluttered 
under the pressure or little foot ; 
the rustling of a silken gown reached 
Bussy’s ear, and the young man heard 
a female voice, filled at once with an 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


77 


expression of disdain and apprehen- 
sion, say to the stranger : 

“Here I am, Monsieur. What 
do you wish of me again ?” 

u Oh! ho !” said Bussy to himself, 
as he sheltered himself yet more 
closely behind the curtains ; “if this 
man be the lover, I congratulate the 
husband on his fortune.” 

“ Madame,” said the man, to 
whom this cold reception was extend- 
ed, “I had the honor of informing 
you that, being forced to set out for 
Fontainbleau to-morrow morning, 1 
should pass this night with you.” 

“ Do you bring me tidings of my 
father ?” asked the same female voice. 
“ Listen to me, Madame.” 

“ Monsieur, you well know what 
was agreed on yesterday, when I con- 
sented to become your wife. It is 
that, before all things, either my fa- 
ther should come to me in Paris, or I 
should go into the country to him.” 
“ Madame, so soon as I shall re- 
turn from Fontainbleau, we will set 
forth, I plight you my word of honor. 
But in the meantime” — 

“ Oh ! Monsieur, do not close that 
door ; it is useless ; I will not pass a 
single night — no, not a single night, 
under the same roof with you, until I 
shall be satisfied as to the fate of my 
father.” 

And the woman who spoke so firm- 
ly, blew a sharp and prolonged note on 
a silver whistle, the instrument at that 
time in vogue to summon servants, 
bells not having been yet adopted for 
that purpose. At the same instant, 
the door by which Bussy had entered 
was again thrown open, giving admit- 
tance to the young lady’s waiting 
woman, who appeared to be awaiting 
that summons from her mistress, and 
who entered in all haste. 

She was a tall and vigorous girl, 
from the province of Anjou. 

As she entered the drawing-room, 
she opened the door completely ; a 
bright stream of light poured into the 
chamber in which Bussy stood, and 
between the two windows he discover- 
ed the portrait. 


“ Gertrude,” said the lady, “ you 
will not retire to bed, and you will 
remain in call of my voice.” 

The lady’s maid retired without 
answering a word, by the same way 
as she had entered, leaving the door of 
the drawing-room wide open, and con- 
sequently, the marvellous picture in 
full sight. 

Bussy had now a doubt no longer. 
The picture wag that which he had 
seen before. He approached gently 
to lay his eye to the crevice which the 
thickness of the hinges left between 
the door and the wall. 

Lightly, however, as he trod, the 
floor still creaked beneath his foot. 

At the sound, the lady turned round 
suddenly. She was the original of 
the portrait — the fairy of his dream. 

The man turned also, on seeing her 
turn, although he had not heard the 
sound. 

It was the lord of Monsoreau. 
“Ha!” said Bussy to himself, 
“ the white palfrey ; the lady who 
was carried off. Now, I doubt not 
that I shall hear some fearful story.” 
And he wiped his face, which was 
covered on the instant with cold per- 
spiration. 

Bussy, as I have said, could see 
them both plainly ; her, pale but 
standing erect, cold and disdainful ; 
him, sitting in a chair, not pale, but 
livid, beating the ground with hi? 
foot, and biting his hand. 

“ Madame,” said the lord of Mon 
soreau at length, “hope not to bfl 
able to persist in playing this part of 
the persecuted woman — the victim — * 
any longer. You are in Paris ; you 
are in my house ; and which is more, 
you are now my wife ; that is to say, 
you are the countess of Monsoreau.” 
“ If I be your wife, wherefore re- 
fuse to conduct me to my father ; 
wherefore persist in keeping me im- 
mured from the eyes of the world ?” 
“You have forgotten the Duke 
d’Anjou, Madame.” 

“You affirmed to me that once 
your wife, your apprehensions of him 
would be at an end.” 


78 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u That is to say” — 

44 You affirmed that.’’ 

44 Still; Madame, it is necessary 
that I take certain precautions.” 

44 Well, Monsieur, take those pre- 
cautions, and when they shall he ta- 
ken, come and see me again.’’ 

u Diana,” said the count, to whose 
heart passion was rising rapidly, 
44 make not a sport, I say, Diana, of 
the blessed rite of marriage ; that is 
a piece of counsel I would give you.” 
44 See you, Monsieur, that I have 
no reason any more to doubt the good 
faith of the husband, and then I 
shall respect the marriage rite.” 

44 Madame, it would seem to me 
that I have acted toward you so as to 
deserve all your confidence.” 

44 1 think, Monsieur, that in all 
this affair, my interest has not been 
}mur only guide, or that if it have, 
your fortune has served you rarely.’’ 
44 Oh ! this is too much !” said the 
count, 44 I am in my house ; you are 
my own wife, and in spite of hell I 
will possess you.” 

Bussy laid his hand on his sword’s 
hilt, and made one step forward. But 
before he had time to show himself, 
Diana had taken the defensive. 

44 Lo!” she cried, drawing out a 
dagger from her belt, 4 4 it is thus 
that I answer you.” 

And bounding into the chamber in 
which Bussy stood, she shut the door, 
shot the double bolt, and cried aloud, 
while Monsoreau exhausted himself in 
useless threats, knocking the door fu- 
riously with his fists : 

44 If you break but one splinter 
from the woodwork of this door,” she 
said, 44 you know me well, Monsieur, 
and you shall find me dead on the 
threshold.” 

44 Be not alarmed, Madame,” said 
Bussy, casting his arms about her, 
44 you shall have an avenger.” 

Diana was on the point of scream- 
ing, but she reflected that the only 
danger she ran was from her hus- 
band. She stood, therefore, still on 
the defensive, silent and trembling, 
but immoveable. 


Monsieur de Monsoreau stamped th$ 
ground furiously, but he was satisfied 
assuredly that Diana would execute 
her menace, for he rushed out of the 
drawing-room, shutting the door vio- 
lently behind him. Then the sound 
of his steps was heard as he passed 
down the corridor, and decreased 
gradually on the staircase, till it was 
heard no longer. 

44 But you, Monsieur,” Diana now 
exclaimed, disengaging herself from 
his arms, and stepping one pace back- 
ward, 44 who are you ? and how came 
you hither ?” 

44 Madame,” said Bussy, opening 
the door again, and kneeling down 
at Diana’s feet, 44 I am the man 
whose life you saved. How can you 
then believe that I had entered your 
house with any ill design, or that I 
entertain any thought against your 
honor ?” 

Thanks to the flood of light which 
now fell upon the noble face of the 
young man, Diana recognized him. 

44 Oh ! Monsieur, you here ?” she 
cried, with clasped hands, 44 you 
here ; and you have heard all ?” 

44 Alas ! yes, Madame.” 

44 But who are you? your name, 
Monsieur.” 

44 Madame, I am Louis de Cler- 
mont, Count de Bussy.” 

44 Bussy ; are you Bussy the brave !” 
cried the young lady, artlessly, with- 
out suspecting the delight which her 
exclamation caused in the heart of 
the young noble. 44 Ah ! Gertrude,” 
she continued, addressing her waiting 
maid, who, hearing her mistress speak 
to some one, had entered in alarm, 
44 ah ! Gertrude, I have nothing now 
to fear, since from this moment forth 
I place my honor in the safe-keeping 
of the noblest and most loyal gentle- 
man in France.” 

Then she extended her hand to 
Bussy, as he still kneeled at her feet, 
and said to him : 

44 Arise, Monsieur. I know who 
you are now ; it is befitting, there- 
fore, that you should now know me.” 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; 

OR, 

THE LADY OF MONSOEEAU. 


PART II. 

/ 


CHAPTER I. 

WHO WAS DIANA OF MERIDOR. 

Bussy arose from his knee absolutely 
bewildered by his good fortune, and 
passed with Diana into the drawing- 
room which Monsieur de Monsoreau 
had just quitted. 

He gazed upon Diana with the 
admiration of astonishment ; he had 
not believed it possible that the ! 
woman whom he sought could bear 
comparison with the lady of his 
dream, and lo ! the reality had over- 
passed all that his wildest fantasy 
had pictured to his mind. 

Diana was eighteen or nineteen 
years of age ; that is to say she was 
in that first glow of youth and beauty 
which gives its richest flush to the 
flower, its ripest bloom to the fruit. 
It was impossible for Diana to mis- 
take the meaning of Bussy’s gaze ; she 
saw that she was admired, and lacked 
the courage to awaken Bussy from his 
ecstasy of delight. 

At length she seemed to perceive 
that she must break off this silence, 
which was more eloquent than words. 

u Monsieur,” she said, u you have; 
replied to one of my questions, but 
the other you have left unanswered. 

I asked you who you are, and you 
have told me. I asked you wherefore 
you came hither, and to that question 
you have made me no answer.” 


u Madame,” said Bussy, u from a 
fhw words which. I overheard of your 
conversation with Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau, I fancy that I can assert to 
you that the causes of my presence 
will appear as natural consequences 
from the recital which you have pro- 
mised to make to me. Did you not 
say to me just now that I ought to 
know who you are ?” 

u Oh yes, Count, I will tell you the 
whole,” replied Diana. u Your name 
was sufficient to inspire me at once 
with all confidence, for your name has 
been repeated in my ears constantly, 
as a man of courage to whose loyalty 
and honor there is nothing which 
might not be confided with safety.” 
Bussy bowed low before her. 
u By the little that you have heard, 
you must have understood already 
that I am the daughter of Baron Me- 
ridor, that is to say, that I am the sole 
heiress to one of the noblest and 
oldest names in Anjou.” 

u There was,” Bussy replied, “ a 
Baron Meridor, who, when he might 
have escaped after the rout of Pavia, 
gave up his sword to the Spaniards, 
when he learned that his king was a 
| prisoner, and who, having asked as 
the only favor which he "would receive, 
permission to accompany Francis I. 
to Madrid, shared his captivity, and 
left him to come to France and treat 
of his ransom.” 

u That, Monsieur, is my father, 


80 


DIANA OP MERIDOR; OR, 


and should you ever enter the great 
hall of the chateau of Meridor, you 
will see the portrait of King Francis 
I. by the hand of Lionardo da Vinci, 
which was presented to him as a token 
of gratitude for his devotion.” 

u Ah !” said Buwsy, u in those 
days princes knew hovv to recompense 
their servants for deeds of honor.” 
On his return from Spain, my 
father married. Two children died 
who were born before me, both sons. 
This was a great cause of grief to the 
baron of Meridor, who lost the hope 
of seeing his own youth restored in 
the person of his heir. Ere long the 
King died in his turn, and the baron’s 
grief was changed into despair. He 
left the Court some years afterward, 
and went to dwell with his wife 'in 
solitude in his chateau of Meridor. 
It was then, as if by a miracle, that 
1 was born ten years after the death 
of my brothers. 

u Then the whole love of the baron 
was concentrated upon me, the child 
of his old age. His affection for me 
was more than tenderness, it was 
idolatry. Three years after my birth 
I lost my mother. Undoubtedly that 
must have been a new source of sor- 
row to my father. But too young to 
feel or understand my loss, I never 
ceased to smile, and my smile was 
some consolation to him, for the 
death of my mother. 

u I grew up, and expanded under 
his eyes, and as I was everything to 
him, so he was everything to me, 
poor father. I attained to my six- 
teenth year without suspecting that 
there was any other world than that 
of my sheep, of my peacocks, of my 
swans, and of my turtle doves, with- 
out suspecting that this mode of life 
must have an end, or desiring that 
it should have such. 

„ u The chateau of Meridor was sur- 
rounded by vast forests belonging to 
Monsieur, the Duke d ’Anjou ; they 
were peopled with fallow deer, with 
roes, with harts, and hinds, which 
no one ever thought of pursuing, and 
which tranquillity had rendered 


tame and fearless. Several of them 
had become acquainted with my voice, 
and would come* running to me when 
I called them. One doe, above all 
the rest, my especial favorite and pet, 
Daphne, poor Daphne, would come 
and eat from my hand. 

u One spring I was a month with- 
out seeing her, I thought her lost and 
wept for her like a friend, when on 
a sudden I saw her reappear with 
two little fawns ; at first the little 
ones were afraid of me, but when they 
saw their mother caress me, they un- 
derstood that they had nothing to 
fear, and would come and caress me 
likewise. 

u About this period, a report was 
spread abroad that Monsieur the 
Duke d’ Anjou had sent a Lieutenant 
Governor to the capital of the pro- 
vince. Some days afterward, it was 
understood that this Governor had 
arrived, and that his name was the 
Lord of Monsoreau. 

u Wherefore did that name strike 
as a knell to my heart, when first 1 
heard it pronounced ? I cannot ex- 
plain to myself that painful sensation 
unless it were a presentiment. 

u Eight days elapsed. Much was 
said, and much difference of opinion 
entertained in relation to the Lord of 
Monsoreau. One morning the woods 
re-echoed far and wide to the sound 
of the bugles, and the barking of the 
hounds. I ran down to the grated 
gates of the park, and arrived just in 
time to see Daphne rush by pursued 
by the pack, with both her fawns fol- 
lowing at her heels. 

u A moment afterwards, mounted 
on a black horse, which seemed to 
have wings, so rapid was its motion, 
a man rushed by me like a vision. 
It was Monsieur de Monsoreau. 

u I wished to cry aloud, I wished 
to ask mercy for my pets, but either 
he heard not my voice, or he paid no 
attention to it, carried away as he 
was by the ardor of the chase. 

u Then, without thinking of the 
alarm it might cause my father, if he 
should discover my absence, I ran 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


81 


away in the direction the chase had 
taken ; I hoped to meet either the 
count himself or some of his people, 
and to prevail on them to interrupt 
this pursuit, which seemed to tear my 
very heart. 

u I ran a mile and a half, as fast 
as I could, not knowing in what di- 
rection I was going. The doe, the 
pack, the hunters, had long since 
gone out of my sight. Soon after- 
ward I ceased to hear the baying of 
the hounds, then I sank down at the 
foot of a tree, and wept bitterly. I 
had been there perhaps a quarter of 
an hour, when, at a distance, I fan- 
cied that 1 could distinguish the 
sound of the chase again approach- 
ing. I was not mistaken. Nearer 
and nearer came the sounds ; ere long 
they were so close at hand, that I 
did not doubt but that they would 
pass within the range of my eye. I 
arose, therefore, and darted toward 1 
the spot where I imagined that it 
would pass. 

u Then, in truth, I saw poor 
Daphne fleet across a glade, panting 
and half exhausted, with but one of 
her fawns in company. The other 
had given out, doubtless, and been 
torn by the dogs. 

u She herself, too, was failing per- 
ceptibly in strength and speed. The 
distance between her and the pack 
was smaller now than it had been 
before ; her motion and gait were 
changed, and as she passed before 
me, she uttered a low, plaintive bleat. 

u As I had done before, I again 
made fruitless efforts to make myself 
heard. But Monsieur de Monsoreau 
saw nothing but the animal, of which 
he was in pursuit. He dashed past 
me even mare swiftly than before, 
with his bugle to his lips, blowing it 
lustily and loud. 

u Behind him rode three or four 
prickers, cheering the dogs with horn 
and hallos. The whirlwind of fierce 
baying, of bugle blasts and hunting 
cries, swept like a tempest through 
the air, and retreating into the depths 

6 


of the forest, died away in the dis- 
tance. 

“ I was in despair. I said to my- 
self, that had I been fifty paces 
nearer to the hunt, had 1 been at tho 
edge of the glade which it traversed, 
he must have seen me, and that then, 
doubtless, at my request, he would 
have spared f! a poor doe. 

u That idea gave me fresh courage , 
the hunt might pass yet once again 
within reach of me. I followed a 
road all bordered by fine trees, which 
I recognized as leading to the chateau 

o o 

of Beauge. The chateau, which be- 
longed to Monsieur the Duke d’An- 
jou, was situated at nearly three 
leagues’ distance from my father’s 
chateau. I soon perceived it, and 
then only did I consider that I had 
walked three leagues on foot, and 
that I was alone, and far distant from 
the chateau of Meridor. 

u I confess that a vague terror then 
took possession of me, and at that 
moment it occurred to me how im- 
prudent, and even unbecoming, had 
been my conduct. I followed along 
the margin of the pond, however, for 
I intended to request the gardener, a 
very worthy man, who had been used 
to give me splendid nosegays when I 
went thither at times with my father, 
to have me conveyed home, when 
suddenly the sound of the chase again 
reached my ears. I stood motionless 
listening with all my powers. The 
sounds increased, and I forgot all my 
fears. Almost at the same instant, 
the doe came bounding out of the 
wood, but pursued so closely that it 
was evident she must soon be over- 
taken by the hounds. She was alone. 
Her second fawn had been killed ; 
but the sight of the water appeared 
to renew her strength, she inhaled its 
coolness through her distended nos- 
trils, and darted into the pond as if 
she would have swam over to me. 

u At first, she swam rapidly, ar 
I thought she had recovered all heu 
energy. I looked at her with tears 
in my eyes, and my arms stretched 




DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


62 ' 


toward her, I panted almost as vio- 
lently as she ; but by insensible de- 
grees her strength deserted her, while 
the hounds, on the contrary, reani- 
mated by their instinctive knowledge 
that they should soon have blood, 
seems d to gain new vigor every mo- 
ment. And now the fleetest and 
fiercest dogs overtook her ; she ad- 
vanced no longer, she was struggling 
in their very fangs. At that moment, 
Monsieur de Monsoreau appeared on 
the margin of the woods, galloped 
down to the brink of the pond, and 
dismounted. Then, in my turn, I 
collected all my strength to make 
myself seen and heard. I fancied 
that he had discovered me, and I 
cried aloud yet more eagerly than 
before. I thought he now heard me, 
for he raised his head, and I saw him 
run toward a boat, cast off its moor- 
ing rope, and push it off rapidly to- 
ward the animal, which was now 
struggling in the midst of the pack, 
which had overtaken and surrounded 
it. I did not entertain a doubt but 
that, moved by my voice, by my ges- 
tures, and my prayers, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau was making haste only in 
order to save my poor Daphne. But 
suddenly, just as he reached the spot 
where she was struggling in the water, 
I saw him draw his hunting-knife. 
A sunbeam striking it, and reflected 
from its blade, Reamed like a flash 
of lightning Then the lightning 
disappeared r I uttered a loud cry, 
for the whole blade was buried in the 
throat of the poor doe. A gush of 
blood sprang out, staining the waters 
of the pond deep red. The doe 
bleated a lamentable cry in her death 
agony, beat the waters with her feet, 
sprang nearly erect into the air, and 
fell back lifeless. 

u 1 uttered afccry almost as doleful 
as her own, and fell fainting on the 
edge of the pond. 

u When I recovered, I was lying in 
a chamber of the chateau of Beauge, 
and my father, who had been sum- 
moned to the spot, was weeping at 
my bed’s head. 


u As it was nothing more than % 
nervous crisis, brought on by the vio- 
lence of my excitement and the fa- 
tigue of undue exercise, I was able 
on the following day to return to 
Meridor. Nevertheless, during three 
or four days I was confined to my 
chamber. 

u On the fourth day, my father 
told me that during my illness M. de 
Monsoreau, who had seen me only at 
the moment when I was taken up 
fainting, had come to inquire after 
me. That he was in despair when he 
learned that he had been the cause, 
although involuntarily, of my acci- 
dent, and had asked permission to 
made his excuses to me in person, 
saying that he should not be happy 
until he had received his pardon at 
my own lips. 

u It would have been ridiculous to 
refuse to see him ; I yielded, there- 
fore, in suite of my reluctance. 

u On the following day he present- 
ed himself. I had already comprehend- 
ed the absurdity of my position. 
The chase is a pleasure of which 
ladies often partake, and it was there- 
fore I, who had in some degree to de- 
fend myself from that ridiculous no- 
tion, and who was forced to throw 
myself back as an excuse, on my 
fondness for my poor pet Daphne. 

u Then it was the count’s part to 
play a man in the utmost despair, and 
more than twenty times he swore to 
me that if he could have suspected 
the interest I took in the victim he 
would have been but too happy to 
spare it. Nevertheless his protesta- 
tions failed to convince me, and he 
departed without effacing from my 
heart the fearful impression which 
he had made on it. 

u When he retired, the count asked 
my father’s permission to visit us again. 
He was born in Spain, and had been 
educated in Madrid. It was a great 
attraction to the baron that he found 
him able to converse concerning a 

O 

country in which he had dwelt long 
Moreover 'the count was a man of 
noble birth, lieutenant-governor of tlia 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


83 


province, a favorite, as it was said, of j 
Monsieur the Duke d 1 Anjou ; so that 
my father had neither motive nor ex- 
cuse for refusing his request, which in 
consequence was granted. 

44 Alas ! from that moment I may 
date the termination, if not of my 
happiness, at least of my tranquillity. 
It was not long before I discovered 
the impression that I had made on 
the count — at first he came but once 
a week, then twice, and at length 
never a day passed without a visit. 
Full of attention to my father, the 
count had impressed him favorably. 
He saw the pleasure which the baron 
derived from his conversation, which 
was at all times that of a superior 
person. I did not dare to complain. 
Of what indeed should I have com- 
plained ? The count was as gallant 
to me as to the mistress of his heart, 
as respectful as to his sister. 

44 One morning my father entered 
my apartment ; he was graver than Jiis 
wont, yet there was something of joy 
even in his gravity. 

44 4 My child,’ he said to me, 4 you 
have Always assured me that you 
should be happy never to leave me.’ 

44 4 Oh ! my father,’ I cried, 4 you 
know that it is my dearest wish never 
to leave you.’ 

44 4 Well, my Diana,’ he continued, 
stooping to kiss my brow, 4 it depends 
on yourself alone that it shall be so 
— that your wish shall be realized.’ 

44 I suspected what he was about to 
tell me, and I turned so frightfully 
pale, that he stopped short before his 
lips had touched my brow. 

44 4 Diana, my child,’ he exclaimed, 
4 oh my God, what is this ?’ 

4 4 4 Monsieur de Monsoreau ? is it 
not ?’ I stammered. 

4 4 4 And if it be ?’ said he in as- 
tonishment. 

4 4 4 Oh ! never, father, never, if you 
have any pity for your child.’ 

4 4 4 Diana, my own love,’ he said, 
4 it is not pity, it is idolatry that I 
feel for you, and you know it. Take 
eight days to consider, and if at the 
end cf eight days 1 — 


4 4 4 Oh! no, no,’ I exclaimed, 4 it 
is useless. Not eight days, not four 
and twenty hours, not one minute 
Oh ! no, no, never.’ 

44 And I burst into tears. 

44 My father, who did indeed adore 
me, had never seen me weep. He 
took me in his arms, and consoled me 
in two words ; he gave me his word 
of honor as a gentleman, that he 
would never speak to me again of that 
marriage. 

44 In fact a month passed without 
my seeing .Monsieur de Monsoreau, 
or hearing a word of him. One morn- 
ing, however, we received an invita- 
tion for myself and my father to be 
present at a great entertainment, 
which the Monsiejir de Monsoreau 
was about to give ^o the King’s bro- 
ther, who was on, a visit to the prov- 
ince from which he derived his title. 
The entertainment was to take place 
in the Hotel de Ville at Angers. 

44 To this letter was added a 
personal invitation on the part of the 
prince, who wrote to my father that 
he remembered to have seen him at 
the court of King Henry, and that he 
should see him again with pleasure. 

44 My first impulse was to entreat 
my father to decline the invitation, 
and assuredly I should have insisted 
if the invitation had been made in 
the single name of M. de Monsoreau; 

O t 

but the prince was in fact the giver 
of the invitation, and my father fear- 
ed that, to refuse his invitation, would 
be an affront to his Highness. 

44 We went, therefore, to the enter- 
tainment ; Monsieur de Monsoreau 
received us as if nothing had ever 
passed between us of an unusual na- 
ture. His conduct towards us was 
neither indifferent nor affected, he 
conducted himself towards me, as to 
any of the other ladies, and I was 
happy to find undistinguished on his 
part, either for good or for evil. 

44 It was by no means the same with 
the Duke d’ Anjou. As soon as he 
perceived me, his eyes were riveted 
upon me, and removed no more. I felt 
[myself ill at ease under the weight 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


84 

of his steady gaze, and without tell- | 
ing my father wherefore I desired it, 

I insisted so urgently, that we were 
amonsc the first who retired. 

o „ 

44 Three days afterward, Monsieur 
de Monsoreau presented himself at 
Meridor. I perceived him afar off, 
and retired to my own apartment. 

44 I was greatly alarmed lest my 
father should cause me to be summon- 
ed, but such was not the case ; and 
at the end of about half an hour, I 
saw Monsieur de Monsoreau depart, 
no notice of his visit having been 
sent to me. Moreover, my father 
never once spoke to me on the subject, 
yet I imagined that I could observe 
that after the visit of the lieutenant- 
governor, he was more gloomy than 
liis wont. 

44 A few days passed thus ; and one 
evening, just as I had returned from a 
walk, I was told as I entered the 
house, that Monsieur de Monsoreau 
was again with my father. The baron 
had inquired two or three times 
whether I had been seen or heard of, 
and twice again he had questioned 
the servants, and that as it appeared 
not without considerable anxiety, whi- 
ther and in what direction ! could have 
gone. He had given orders that he 
should be informed of my return on 
the very moment of my being seen. 

44 And in fact, scarcely was I in 
my chamber, before my father came 
into it very hastily. 

44 4 My child,’ he said, 4 a motive 
of which it is unnecessary that you 
should know the cause, compels me 
to separate myself from you for a few 
days. Do not question me, but rest 
satisfied that the motive must be very 
urgent, since it determines me not to 
see you for a week, a fortnight, per- 
haps even a month.’ 

44 1 shuddered, although I could by 
no means divine to what danger I was 
exposed; but Monsieur de Monso- 
reau’s double visit had not failed to 
awaken my apprehensions. 

44 4 And whither must I go, my fa- 
ther ?’ 1 asked him. 

444 To the Chateau du I/iie, to ivy 


sister, where you may remain con 
cealed from all eyes. As to your ar 
rival there, care will be taken that ii 
shall occur at night.’ 

4 4 4 But who will conduct me 
thither ?’ 

4 4 4 Two men in whose faith I have 
every confidence.’ 

44 Oh! My God! My God! Mj 
father.’ 

44 4 My child,’ said he, 4 it must 
be so.’ 

44 I knew so well the deep love that 
inspired my father’s bosom, that I 
insisted no farther, and asked him for 
no further explanation. It was agreed 
between us, that Gertrude the daucdi- 
ter of my nurse should accompany me. 

44 My father left me with instruc- 
tions to hold myself in readiness. 

44 That evening, at eight o’clock, it 
was very dark and exceeding cold, for 
it was one of the longest nights of 
winter — that evening, at eight o’clock, 
my father came for me to my cham- 
ber. I was ready, as he had desired 
me to be ; we went down stairs si- 
lently, traversed the garden, and 
when we had reached the extremity 
he opened with his own hand a pos- 
tern door which gave egress into the 
forest. There we found a litter, with 
the horses already harnessed, and two 
j^nen mounted by the side of it. To 
them my father spoke for a long time, 
recommending me apparently to their 
protection ; then I took my seat in 
the litter ; Gertrude took her seat hy 
my side. The baron embraced me 
for the last time, and the litter was 
put in motion. 

44 1 was ignorant what sort of dan- 
ger it was that threatened me, and 
compelled me to leave Meridor. I 
questioned Gertrude, but she was as 
ignorant as I. I dared not address a 
word to our conductors, with whom 1 
was wholly unacquainted, and we 
proceeded in silence, through circuit- 
ous byeways, until, at length, at the 
very moment when in spite of all my 
terrors and anxiety, the even and mo- 
notonous motion of the litter was on 
; the point of putting me to sleep, I 


THE LADY OF MON SORE AU. 


85 


was aroused by Gertrude, who caught 
hold of my arm, and by the sudden 
jerk of the litter, as it stopped. 

u 4 Oh ! Mademoiselle,’ cried the 
poor girl, 4 what then is going to 
happen to us ?’ 

44 I passed my head between the 
curtains ; we were surrounded by six 
masked Cavaliers ; our men, who had 
attempted to resist, were disarmed and 
prisoners. 

u I was too much alarmed to cry 
for help, besides who should have 
come to our assistance ? 

44 He who appeared the principal 
person of the masked party now ap- 
proached the door of the litter ; 4 Be 
not alarmed,’ he said , 4 Mademoiselle ; 
no injury shall be done to you; but 
you must follow us.’ 

44 4 Whither ?’ I asked. 

44 4 To a place, in which far from 
having anything to fear, you shall be 
treated like a queen.’ 

“This promise terrified me more 
than it could have done, had it been 
a threat. 

44 4 Oh ! my father !’ I murmured. 
4 My father !’ 

44 4 Listen, Mademoiselle,’ said Ger- 
trude to me in a whisper, 4 I am ac- 
quainted thoroughly with all the neigh- 
borhood, I am devoted to you, I am 
strong and courageous, and it must go 
very hardly with us, if we cannot 
succeed in making our escape.’ 

44 This assurance made to me by my 
poor servant girl, was far from con- 
soling me, or giving me any real con- 
fidence.. Still it is sweet in times of 
adversity to feel that one has any sup- 
port whatever, so that I recovered a 
little courage. 

O 

u 4 Do as you will with us, Mes- 
sieurs,’ I replied, 4 we are two un- 
happy women, and we cannot defend 
ourselves.’ 

44 One of the men dismounted, took 
the place of our driver, and changed 
the direction of the litter.” 

Bussy, as will be readily believed, 
was listening to Diana’s narrative 
with the deepest attention. There 
is, in the first emotion of a great 


passion at its birth, a sentiment of 
almost religious veneration for the 
person whom we are beginning to 
love. The woman whom our heart 
has chosen, seems elevated by that 
choice above all other women. She 
is rendered great, she is purified, she 
is raised almost to divinity, each of 
her gestures is a favor granted, each 
of her words is a grace rendered to 
us. If she looks at us, we are rejoic- 
ed to the very heart ; if she smile on 
us our every wish is gratified. 

The young man had suffered the 
narrator to unroll the tissue of her 
whole life without daring to interrupt 
her, without so much as thinking of 
cutting her short even by a question. 
Every event, every small detail of 
that life to watch over which with 
jealous care he now felt it his especial 
duty, had assumed in his eyes a par- 
amount importance ; and he hung on 
every word as it fell from Diana’s 
lips, panting and silent, as if his very 
existence had depended on the reten- 
tion of her slightest accent. 

But now, as the young woman 
paused for a moment in her tale, too 
weak doubtless to resist the violence 
of the two-fold emotion which assailed 
emotion in which the peril of the pre 
sent moment was blended with the re- 
collection of past sorrows, Bussy could 
not remain any longer tranquil under 
the weight of his anxiety, but clasp- 
ing his hands, cried earnestly, 

44 Oh, proceed, Madame, proceed 
with your tale.” 

It was impossible that Diana should 
have failed to see the interest which 
she excited ; for everything in the 
voice, the gestures, the expression of 
the young man, was in harmony with 
the prayer which his words contained. 
Diana smiled sorrowfully, and pro- 
ceeded with her narrative. 

44 We had journeyed three hours.” 
she said, 44 when the litter stopped, 
and the gates grated on their hinges 
as we entered the court of some build- 
ing. A few words were exchanged, 
and the litter again moved forward ; 

I felt that it was now rolling over 


86 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


301110 level and sonorous surface, simi- 
lar to that of a draw-bridge. I was 
not mistaken. I cast a glance through 
the curtains of the litter, and per- 
ceived that we were in a court yard 
surrounded by the tall buildings of 
some chateau. 

u What chateau was it ? Neither 
Gertrude nor I could even form a con- 
jecture. Often during our journey 
had we tried to discover some land- 
marks by which to learn whither we 
were bound, but nothing had met 
our eyes save an interminable forest. 
It is true that the same idea had 
occurred to us both, that our captors, 
in a word, were leading us round and 
round over the same roads in a useless, 
but well calculated circuit, in order 
to render it impossible for us to form 
any idea of our whereabouts. 

u The door of our litter was now 
opened, and the same man who had 
already spoken to us, assisted us to 
dismount from the conveyance. 

u I obeyed in silence. Two men who 
belonged to the chateau, undoubtedly, 
had come with flambeaux to receive 
us ; and as the terrible promise made 
to me in the forest had imported, 
everything announced that our cap- 
tiv’ty would be attended by the most 
respectful attentions. We followed the 
torch-bearers, who conducted into a 
bed-chamber sumptuously furnished, 
and which appeared to have been de- 
corated at the most brilliant epoch, 
as to elegance and style, of the era of 
Francis the First. 

u A collation, splendidly served, 
had been prepared for us already. 

u c You are in your own house, 
Madame, ’, said the man, who had 
addressed me twice already, 4 and as 
the cares and attentions of a waiting- 
woman are indispensable to you, 
yours shall not be taken from you. 
Her chamber is adjoining to your 
own.’ 

u Gertrude and#! exchanged a joy- 
ous glance. 

u ‘ As often as you shall desire 
anything,’ continued the man in the 
mask, 4 you will have but to sound 


the knocker of that door, and a per- 
son who will constantly be in attend- 
ance on you in that ante-chamber, 
will instantly be at your orders.’ 

u This apparent attention only 
proved to us that our captors were 
resolved to keep us constantly in 
view. 

u The man with the mask bowed' 
respectfully and left our apartment, 
and we could hear that he locked 
and double locked the door behind 
him. 

u We were now left entirely alone, 
Gertrude, I mean, and I. We stood, 
for a moment, motionless, looking at 
one another by the light of the two 
chandeliers which stood on the sup- 
per-table. Gertrude was about to 
speak, but I laid my finger on my 
lip as a sign to her that she should 
be silent. Some one, perhaps, was 
listening to what we should say. 

u The door of the room which they 
had pointed out to us as Gertrude’s 
stood open ; and the same idea, of 
examining it thoroughly, occurred to 
us both at the same moment. She 
took up one of the tall candelabra, 
and stealing away noiselessly, on the 
points of our toes, we entered it to- 
gether. 

u It was a large, handsome closet, 
intended evidently to form as a dress- 
ing-room the full complement of a 
well appointed apartment. It had a 
door parallel to that by which we had 
entered it from the bed-chamber ; and 
this second door, like the first, was 
decorated by a small knocker of cop- 
per, elaborately chiselled, falling 
down upon a boss of the same metal. 
Bosses and knockers, all were execut- 
ed with such splendor, that you would 
have taken them for master-pieces of 
Benvenuto Cellini. 

u It was evident that the doors, both 
of the bed-chamber and dressing- 
room, communicated with the same 
ante-chamber. Making me a sign to 
hold my peace, Gertrude stepped for- 
ward to the door, and lowered her 
light to the key-hole. That door was 
also double locked. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


87 


ti We were evidently prisoners. 
u It is almost incredible, how of- 
ten, when two persons, even of differ- 
ent conditions and habits of life, are 
accidentally thrown into circumstan- 
ces precisely similar, and made par- 
takers of a common fear or a com- 
mon danger, how often, I say, their 
thoughts will be analogous, and how 
easily they will dispense with all in- 
termediate explanations, and words 
not absolutely needful. 

44 Gertrude came close up to me. 

44 4 Mademoiselle,’ she whispered 
in my ear, 4 did you not remark, that 
as we came up from the court-yard, 
we ascended five steps only from the 
surface of the ground ? ’ — 

*** Yes,’ I replied, 4 I did remark it.’ 
44 4 We are on the ground floor, 
therefore,’ she said quickly. 

44 4 Undoubtedly, we are.’ 

44 4 So that,’ she added, in a yet 
lower voice, fixing her eyes on the 
exterior shutters, 4 so that’ — 

44 4 If the windows were not barred,’ 
I interrupted her — 

4 4 4 Yes,’ s#id she, 4 yes, and if 
Mademoiselle had but the courage ?’ 
4 4 4 Courage,’ I exclaimed : 4 oh ! on 
that head I fear nothing. I will have 
courage, my child.’ 

44 It was Gertrude, who now in her 
turn laid her finger on her lips. 

44 4 Yes ! yes ! I unde stand,’ said I. 
44 Gertrude now made me a sign to 
remain quietly where I was standing, 
and then went and placed the cande- 
labrum on the table whence she had 
taken it, in the bed-chamber. 

44 I had already comprehended her 
meaning ; and having approached the 
window, was trying to discover the 
springs of the shutters. 

44 1 found them, or rather Ger- 

• ' 

trude, who had returned to me, soon 
found them, and the shutters flew 
open. 

44 I uttered a joyous exclamation, 
for the window was not barred. 

44 But Gertrude quickly observed 
the reason of that negligence on the 
part of our guardians. A large pond 
washed the base of the walls. We 


were guarded by at least ten feet of 
water, far better certainly than we 
could have been by the bars of any 
windows, how strong or massy soever. 

44 But as they- turned again from the 
water to the shores, our eyes recog- 
nized at once a landscape, which was 
familiar to them. We were prison- 
ers in the chateau of Beauge, whither, 
as I have said before, I had been seve- 
ral times on visits to the place, and 
where, on the death of my poor 
Daphne, I had been taken up, faint- 
ing, about a month before. 

44 The chateau of Beauge belonged 

o o 

to Monsieur the Duke of Anjou. Then 
it was that enlightened as it were by 
a sudden flash, I understood all the 
horrors of my situation. 

44 Then it was that I gazed on the 
pond with an eye of gloomy satisfac- 
tion. It was a last resource against 
violence — a last refuge from dis- 
honor. 

44 We closed the shutters again. I 
cast myself upon the bed without un- 
dressing. Gertrude threw herself in-, 
to an arm-chair with all her clothes 
on, and slept at my feet. 

44 Twenty times during the night I 
was awakened with a start, a prey to 
the most hideous terrors ; but nothin^ 
justified the apprehension with which 
my situation had filled me ; nothing 
indicated any evil intentions against 
me ; all around, on the contrary, 
slept or appeared to sleep, and no 
other noise than the cry of birds from 
the marshes, interrupted the silence 
of the night. 

44 The day appeared ; and the day, 
by sweeping from the landscape all 
that obscurity which clothes it in ter- 
ror, confirmed me in the fears which 
I had entertained iu the beginning of 
the past night. All flight was impossi- 
ble, unless it were from without ; and 
whence without should help have 
come to us ? 

44 Toward nine o’clock, some one 
knocked at the door. I passed into 
Gertrude’s chamber, telling her that 
she might allow them to come in. 

44 Those who knocked, and whom I 


88 


DIANA OP MERIDOR ; OR, 


could see when the door of communi- 
cation opened, were our attendants of 
the previous evening ; they had now 
come to remove the supper of which 
we had not so much as partaken, and 
to bring breakfast. 

O 

44 Gertrude asked them some ques- 
tions, but they left the room without 
making any answer. 

44 I returned to my apartment, 
therefore, perfectly satisfied as to my 
situation, by the fact that I was a pri- 
soner in the Castle of Beauge, and that 
I was treated with such extraordinary 
show of respect. Monsieur the 
Duke d ’Anjou had seen me at the 
entertainment given by Monsieur de 
Monsoreau ; the Duke of Anjou had 
fallen in love with me ; my father 
had been informed of it, and had en- 
deavored to remove me from the per- 
secution of which he foresaw that I 
should be the object. He had re- 
moved me from Meridor, but betray- 
ed, whether by a faithless servant, or 
by some evil chance, his precaution 
had proved useless, and I had fallen 
into the hands of the very man from 
whom he had endeavored vainlv to 
secrete me. 

44 I dwelt on this idea, the only 
one which resembled the truth, and 
in fact the only one which was true. 

44 In compliance with Gertrude’s en- 
treaties, I drank a cup of milk, and 
ate a little bread. 

44 The morning elapsed, while we 
were laying vain and frantic plans 
for an escape, and yet within a hun- 
dred paces of us, moored among the 
reeds, lay a skiff furnished with all 
its oars and tackling. Certainly, had 
that boat been within our reach, my 
strength, heightened by my terrors, 
and Gertrude’s natural vigor, would 
have sufficed to draw us out of our 
captivity. 

44 During the morning, nothing oc- 
curred to disturb us. Dinner was 
served as breakfast had been before. 
I was almost exhausted by weakness. 
I flat down to dinner therefore, wait- 
ed upon by Gertrude only, for as 
soon as our keepers had placed our 


meals on the table, they at once with- 
drew. Suddenly, as I broke a roll of 
"bread, I found that it contained a lit- 
tle note. 

44 I opened it in haste ; it contain- 
ed this single line : 

44 4 A friend watches over you. To- 
morrow you shall have news of your 
father.’ 

44 My joy may be readily imagined. 
My heart beat as if it were about to 
break. I showed the note to Gertrude. 
The rest of the day was spent in ex- 
pectation and hope. 

44 The second night passed over as 
calmly as the first ; then came the 
hour of breakfast, which I awaited 
with eager impatience, for I felt cer- 
tain that I should find another note 
similar to that of the preceding day 
concealed in my bread. I was not 
mistaken, the note was couched in 
these terms. 

44 4 The person who has caused you 
to be carried off to the chateau of 
Beauge, will arrive here at ten o’clock 
this evening ; but the friend who 
watches over you will be under your 
windows at nine, with a letter fron 
your father, who will command you 
to place that confidence in him which 
otherwise you would perhaps hesitate 
to give him. 

44 4 Burn this note.’ 

44 I read this letter again and again, 
then I cast it into the fire, according to 
the directions which had been given to 
me. The handwriting was entirely 
strange to me, and I confess, I had 
no suspicion from whom it could have 
come. 

44 We lost ourselves a hundred times 
in conjectures, both Gertrude and 
myself. A hundred times during the 
morning, we went to the window in 
order to look out, whether we could 
perceive any person on the banks of 
the pond, or in the depths of the for- 
est, but all was solitarv and silent. 

44 An hour after dinner, some person 
knocked at our door ; it was the first 
time any person had endeavored to 
enter our apartment at any hour, other 
than at the time of our meals. Never- 


THE LADY OF MONSORBAU. 


89 


theless, as we had no means of securing | 
ourselves from within we had no choice 
but to let him enter. He was the 
man who had spoken to us at the 
door of the litter and in the court of 
the chateau. I could not recognize 
him by his face, since he was masked 
when he addressed us, but at the first 
words he uttered, I recognized his 
voice. 

44 He presented a letter to me. 

44 4 Whence come you, Monsieur, 
and on whose behalf?’ I asked. 

44 4 If Mademoiselle will give her- 
self the trouble of reading, she will 
learn,’ he replied. 

4 4 4 But I will not read the letter, 
not knowing from whom it comes.’ 

4 4 4 Mademoiselle is her own mis- 
tress to do as she will. I am com- 
manded to hand this letter to her, and 
I now lay it at her feet. If she shall 
think it good to pick it up, she will 
pick it up.’ 

And at the word, the waiter, who 
seemed to be an equerry, placed the 
letter on a footstool on which my feet 
were resting, and left the room with- 
out farther words. 

£4 4 What is to be done ?’ I asked of 
Gertrude. 

4 4 4 If I dare advise Mademoiselle, 
it would be to read this letter. Per- 
haps it may contain the tidings of 
some danger from which, informed by 
it, we may be enabled to make good 
our escape.’ 

44 The advice seemed so reasonable 
that I repented of the resolution I 
had taken at first ; and opened the 
letter.” 

Diana at this moment broke off 
from her narrative, stood up, and 
opening a small piece of furniture of 
that kind for which we have retained 
the Italian name of stippo , took out 
a letter, enclosed in a small silken 
pocket-book. 

Bussy cast a glance at the super- 
scription. 44 To the beautiful Diana 
of Meridor,” said he. Then looking 
at the young lady, he continued , 4 4 This 
letter is in the handwriting of the 
Duke d’Anjou.’’ 


44 Ah!” she replied, with a sigh, 
44 then he did not deceive me.” 

Then, seeing that Bussy hesitated 
to open the letter, 

44 Read it,” she said, 44 chance has 
rendered you, in an instant, the most 
intimate friend I possess. Read it, 
therefore. From you I can have no 
more secrets.’’ 

Bussy obeyed, and read as follows. 

44 An unhappy prince, whom your 
divine beauty has stricken to the 
heart, will come at ten o’clock this 
evening, to offer you his excuses for 
his conduct toward you. Conduct, 
which, he is himself but too well a war?, 
has no other excuse than the invinci- 
ble love he bears you. 

44 Francis.” 

44 This letter, then, is in truth 
written by the Duke d’Anjou?” asked 
Diana. 

44 Alas ! yes,” replied Bussy, 44 it 
is his handwriting and his seal.” 

Diana sighed. 

44 Is it possible, then, that he is less 
guilty than I have believed him to 
be ?’’ 

44 Who ? the prince ?’’ asked Bus- 
sy- 

44 No, the other, the Count of Mon- 
soreau.” 

It was Bussy, who now sighed in 
his turn. 

44 Proceed, Madame,” said he , 44 and 
we will judge of the prince, and of 
the count.” 

44 This letter, which I had then no 
motive for believing to be unreal, but 
rather the contrary, since it agreed 
well with my own peculiar fears, 
proved to me, as Gertrude had fore- 
seen, the danger to which I was ex- 
posed, and rendered so much the more 
precious to me the intimation of the 
unknown friend, who offered me his 
succors in the name of my father. I 
had no longer any hope but in him. 

44 Our investigations recommenced. 
My eyes and those of Gertrude, dived 
through the windows, and dwelt on 
the pond and that part of the forest 
which lay opposite to our apartments. 
In all the space which our eyes could 


90 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


overlook, we saw nothing which 
seemed to bear any relation to our 
hopes, or to encourage them. 

44 Night fell ; but as we were in the 
month of January, night fell early. 
Four or five hours, therefore, still in- 
tervened before the fatal moment ; we 
awaited the end with anxiety. 

44 It was one of those fine wintry 
frosts, during which, if it were not 
for the cold, one would believe him- 
self either in the end of spring, or in 
the beginning of autumn. The hea- 
vens shone brightly, sprinkled with 
thousands of bright stars, and in one 
corner of that heaven the moon, like 
a diamond crescent, lighted the land- 
scape up with her silvery lustre. We 
opened the window of Gertrude’s 
chamber, which ought, in all proba- 
bility, to be less strictly watched than 
mine. 

44 Toward seven o’clock, a slight mist 
arose from the pond, like to a veil of 
transparent gauze ; that vapor did 
not prevent us from seeing, or rather 
our eyes, accustomed to obscurity, 
succeeded in penetrating its density. 

44 As we had no means by which to 
measure the lapse of time, it was not 
in our power to say clearly at what 
hour it was, that we saw on the skirts 
of the forest something like darker 
shadows moving to and fro in the 
half transparent gloom. 

44 These shadows appeared to be ap- 
proaching carefully, gliding from tree 
to tree in such a manner as to keep 
themselves out of sight Perhaps 
we might, however, have imagined 
that these shadows were but the sport 
of our imaginations, so thick was the 
darkness within the verge of the for- 
est, when the neigh of a horse came 
faintly across the intervening space, 
and convinced our doubts. 

44 4 They are our friends,” mur- 
mured Gertrude. 

44 4 Or the prince,’ I replied. 

44 4 Oh ! the prince,’ said Gertrude, 
4 the prince would not hide himself.’ 

44 That simple reflection satisfied 
me, dissipated my suspicions, and in 
tome measure re-assured me. 


44 We redoubled the earnestnew, of 
our observation. 

44 A man came forward by himself. 
It seemed to me, indeed, that he had 
quitted another group of men which 
remained partially concealed by a tuft 
of trees. 

44 That man walked straight toward 
the boat ; detached it from the 
barque to which it was moored, stepped 
into it, and crave it an impulse which 
sent it gliding silently across the 
water toward me. 

44 As it approached, I strained my 
eyes to the utmost, to discover who it 
was that was rowing it. 

44 It was not long before I conjec- 
tured that I could recognize flist the 
tall stature, and then the dark and 
gloomy features of the Lord of Mon- 
soreau. At length, when be was with- 
in ten paces of me, it *^ould have 
been difficult for me to say which I 
most dreaded, the peril, or the pro- 
tector ; for I was now sure that it was 
no one but he. 

44 Now. I stood motionless and 
mute, in a range with the angle of 
the window, so that he could not see 
me. When he had reached the foot 
of the wall, he stopped his barque, 
and attaching it to a ring in the wall, 
raised his head so that I could see it 
on a level with the sill of the case- 
ment. 

* 4 I could not refrain from uttering a 
slight cry. 

44 4 Ah pardon me,’ said the Count 
de Monsoreau. 44 I thought that you 
would have expected me.’ 

44 4 I certainly expected some one,’ 
said I, 4 but I had no idea, Monsieur, 
that the some one would be you.’ 

44 A bitter smile came over the 
Count’s face. 

44 4 Who, pray you, save I and your 
father, should watch over the honor 
of Diana of Meridor ?’ 

44 4 Tou stated to me, Monsieur, 
in the letter which you wrote me, that 
you came to me in the name of my 
father ?’ 

4 4 4 Yes, Mademoiselle, and as I 
foresaw that you might doubt the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


91 


# 

truth of my mission, I bring to you a 
note from the baron.’ 

44 .And with the word he handed 
me a small piece of paper. 

44 We had not lighted as yet either 
tapers or candelabra, in order to have 
more liberty in consequence of the 
darkness of doing whatsoever might 
be required by circumstances. I 
passed from Gertrude’s chamber into 
my own. I kneeled down by the fire 
and by the light of its blazing billets 
read as follows : 

44 4 My dear Diana, Monsieur le 
Comte de Monsoreau alone can res- 
cue you from the danger which you 
run, and that danger is immense. 
Trust yourself, then, entirely to him, 
as to the best friend heaven can send 
to us. He will tell you, hereafter, 
that which from the bottom of my 
heart I should desire you to do in 
order to wipe the debt off which we 
have both contracted to him. 

u 4 Your father, who implores you 
to take pity on yourself and him. 

44 4 Baron de Meridor.’ 

44 There was no positive circum- 
stance upon my mind' against Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau ; the dislike which 
I felt for him was instinctive rather 
than rational. I had no other re- 
proach to make against him than the 
death of a doe, a very slight com- 
plaint against a huntsman. 

44 I went toward him therefore. 

44 4 Well ?’ he said in an inquiring 
tone. 

44 4 Monsieur, I have read my 
father’s letter, he tells me that you 
will take me hence, but he does not 
tell me whither you will conduct me.’ 
44 4 1 will conduct you, Mademoi- 
selle, whither the baron awaits you.’ 
u 4 And where does he await me ?’ 
44 4 At the chateau of Meridor.’ 

44 4 I shall soon, therefore, see my 
father ?” 

44 4 Within two hours.’ 

44 4 Oh ! Monsieur, if you tell me 
truly — ’ 

44 I stopped. The count evidently 
awaited the end of my speech in 
great anxiety. 


44 4 You may count on my grati- 
tude,’ 1 added, in a weak and trem- 
bling voice, for I divined what it was 
that he might expect as the proof of 
that gratitude which I yet lacked the 
strength to explain to him. 

u 4 Then, Mademoiselle, you are 
ready to accompany me.’ 

44 I looked anxiously toward Ger- 
trude. It was easy to see that the 
dark countenance and sinister ex- 
pression of the count had not made 
a more agreeable impression on her 
mind than on my own. 

44 4 Consider,’ he said, 4 that every 
minute which elapses, is more pre- 
cious to you than you can imagine. 
I am nearly half an hour behind my 
time. It will be ten o’clock ere long, 
and have you not received informa- 
tion that the prince will be here at 
that hour, in this chateau of 
Beauge ?’ 

4 4 4 Alas !’ I replied, 4 1 have.’ 

44 4 The prince once here, 1 can do 
nothing for you, but risk that life 
hopelessly, which I now risk with* the 
certainty of saving you.’ 

4 4 4 Wherefore did not my father 
come in person ?’ 

4 4 4 Do you suppose that your father 
is not hemmed in and watched on 
every side ? Do you suppose that he 
can take a step without it being fore- 
seen and anticipated ?’ 

14 4 But you, Monsieur ?’ I asked. 

4 4 4 Oh ! I am quite a different 
thing. I am the friend, the confi- 
dant of the prince.’ 

4 4 4 But, Monsieur,’ I exclaimed, 
4 if you be the friend and confidant of 
the prince — ’ 

4 4 4 Then I am betraying him to 
serve you, that is what you would 
say. Well, it is so. However, did 
I not tell you a moment since that I 
was risking my life for you, in order 
to preserve your honor ?’ 

44 There was such an expression ot 
sincerity in that reply of the count, 
and it seemed -to harmonize so well 
with what I knew to be the truth, 
that, while I still felt something 
remaining of reluctance to trust my- 


32 


DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


self in bis power, I could find no 
words in which to express my re- 
luctance. 

44 4 I await you,’ said the count. 

' 44 Once more I looked toward Ger- 
trude ; she was as undecided as my- 
self. 

44 4 Look you,’ said Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, 4 if you are still in doubt, 
look yonder.’ 

44 And in the opposite direction to 
that from which he had come, filing 
along the bank of the pond, I saw a 
troop of men advancing rapidly to- 
ward the chateau. 

44 4 What men are those ?’ I asked. 

44 4 The Duke d’ Anjou and his 
train,’ replied the count. 

44 4 Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,’ 
said Gertrude, 4 there is not a moment 
to lose.’ 

44 4 There have been too many lost 
already,’ said the count. 4 In hea- 
ven’s name determine what you will 
do.’ 

44 I fell back into a chair. My 
strength had utterly abandoned me. 

4 Oh ! my God, my God ! What shall 
I do ?’ I cried. 

4 4 4 Listen,’ said the count, 4 lis- 
ten — they are knocking at the door.’ 

44 And in truth we could hear the 
knocker clang on the great gates in 
the hands of two men whom we saw 
detach themselves from the train, and 
gallop forward. 

44 4 Five minutes more and it will 
be too late.’ 

44 I endeavored to rise, but my 
limbs failed to do their office. 

4 4 4 Help me, Gertrude,’ I stam- 
mered, 4 help me.’ 

44 4 Mademoiselle,’ said the poor 
girl, 4 hear you not the doors open- 
ing — hear you not the horses tram- 
pling without in the court-yard ?’ 

44 4 Yes, yes,’ I cried, 4 but my 
strength is all gone.’ 

4 4 4 Oh ! if that be all,’ she said, 
and with the word she took me in her 
arms, lifted me up as if I had been a 
child, and placed me in the arms of 
the count. 

44 But as 1 felt the touch of that 


man, so violently did I shudder, that 
I was on the point of falling into the 
lake. 

44 He pressed me, however, to his 
breast, and laid me down in the boat 

44 Gertrude had followed me, and 
descended into the boat without re- 
quiring any aid. 

44 Then I perceived that my veil 
had fallen into the water, and think- 
ing that it might lead them to pursue 
on our traces, I said to the count, 
pointing to it with my hand, 

4 4 4 My veil, my veil ! will you not 
pick up my veil ?’ 

44 The count cast a rapid glance 
toward the object to which I pointed. 

44 4 No,’ said he, 4 it is better as it 
is.’ 

44 And seizing the oars, he plied 
them with such strength and skill 
that in a few strokes we found our- 
selves close to the farther bank of the 
pond. 

44 At that moment we perceived 
that the windows of the apartment I 
had occupied were brilliantly illu- 
minated ; servants were entering the 
door with wax lights. 

4 4 4 Did I deceive you, now ?’ said 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, 4 or was it 
indeed time ?’ 

4 4 4 Oh! yes, yes, Monsieur,’ I ex- 
claimed, 4 you are indeed my pre- 
server.’ 

44 Nevertheless, the lights gleamed 
to and fro through the windows, now 
of my own, now of Gertrude’s apart- 
ment, in hurry and confusion. We 
could hear voices and outcries. A 
man entered the room before whom 
all the rest made way. He approach- 
ed the window which we had left 
open, saw the veil floating on the wa- 
ter, and uttered aloud cry. 

4 4 4 Do you see now, that I did well 
to leave that veil there ?’ said the 
count. 4 The prince will think that, 
in order to escape from him, you hav6 
thrown yourself into the lake ; and 
while he is searching for you, we shall 
have time to escape .’ 

44 Then again I began to tremble 

O O 

more fearfully than before, as I con- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


93 


• # 

templated the gloomy depths of the 
intellect, which should have reckoned 
beforehand on such a resource. 

44 At that moment we touched the 
farther bank.” 


CHAPTER II. 

WHO WAS DIANA OF MERIDOR. THE 

BARGAIN 

There was once more a momentary 
silence. Diana, almost as much af- 
fected by the recollection, as she had 
been by the reality itself, felt her 
voice failing her. Bussy was listen- 
ing to her with all the powers of his 
soul, and was vowing eternal hatred 

7 O 

in advance, to all her foes, let them 
be who they might. 

At length, having drawn out of her 
pocket a flask of salts, which she in- 
haled for a few seconds, Diana re- 
sumed her narrative. 

44 Scarcely,” she said, 44 had we 
set foot to ground, before seven or 
eight men came running up to us. 
They were the count’s attendants, 
and I perceived that among the num- 
ber I could recognize the two servants 
who had accompanied our litter when 
we were attacked by the party which 
carried us to the chateau of Beaug£ 
An equerry was holding by the bridle 
reins two horses. One was the count’s 
black charger, the other was a white 
palfrey, obtained for my use. The 
count lifted me to the saddle of the 
palfrey, and sprung himself to his tall 
charger’s back. 

44 Gertrude was mounted on the 
croupe, behind one of the count’s 
servitors. 

u These dispositions were scarcely 
made, before we set out on the gal- 
lop. 

44 I observed that the count had ta- 
ken my palfrey by the rein, and I re- 
marked to him that I rode well enough 
to render * that precaution unneces- 
sary. But he replied that the animal 


' V 

he had provided for me was shy, and 
that it might start away, and so sepa- 
rate me from him. 

We had been galloping thus for 
some minutes, when I heard the voice 
of Gertrude calling to me aloud. I 
turned round, and perceived that our 
tro^p' had divided itself into two par- 
ties ; four men had taken a side path, 
branching off from the road we were 
following, and were carrying her away 
into the forest, while the lord of Mon- 
soreau, and the four others, together 
with myself, kept the main road. 

44 4 Gertrude !’ I cried. 4 Monsieur, 
wherefore comes not Gertrude along 
with us ?’ 

44 4 Through an indispensable pre- 
caution,” he replied. 44 In case we 
should be pursued, we must leave two 
tracks ; there must be two different 
roads by which women shall be seen 
carried off by men. We shall then 
have the chance, that Monsieur the 
Duke d’ Anjou may take the wrong 
track, and follow after your waiting- 
maid, instead of following yourself.’ 

44 This reply, specious as it was, 
did not satisfy me. But what could 
I do ? I sighed, and awaited. 

44 Moreover, the road by which the 
count was conducting, was that which 
led toward the chateau of Meridor. 
In a quarter of an hour, according to 
the rate at which we were riding, we 
should have been at the gates. But 
suddenly, on reaching a centre of 
many forest avenues, which was well 
known to me, the count, instead of 
pursuing the road which would have 
brought us to my father’s house, 
turned off to the left, and followed a 
road which led us perceptibly away in 
a different direction. I screamed im- 
mediately, and notwithstanding the 
rapid pace at which my palfrey was 
going, I rested my hand on the pom- 
mel of my saddle, and was on the 
point of leaping to the ground, when 
the count, who watched .my every 
movement, leaned toward me, en- 
twined his arm round my body, and 
lifting me clear of the palfrey’s back, 
placed me across his saddle-bow. 


H 


DIANA OP MERIDOR ; OR, 


The palfrey, perceiving that it was 
at liberty, darted away, neighing 
shrilly, into the deeper recesses of the 
forest. 

44 This action was performed by the 
count so rapidly, that I had but the 
time to utter that one cry. 

44 Monsieur de Monsoreau immedi- 
ately laid his hand on my mouth. 

i( * 4 Mademoiselle,’ he said to me, 
4 I swear to you, by my honor, that 
I am doing nothing but by your fa- 
ther’s orders, as I will prove to you 
at our first halting-place. If that 
proof shall not appear to you suffi- 
cient, or shall be in any degree doubt- 
ful, 1 again pledge my honor to you, 
that you shall be at liberty, Made- 
moiselle, to go whither you will.’ 

44 4 But you told me, Monsieur, 
that you were conducting me to my 

O «/ 

father,’ I cried, thrusting his hand 
away, and casting my head backward. 

44 4 Yes. I told you so : because I 
saw that you hesitated to follow me, 
and one instant more of that hesita- 
tion would have ruined us — you, 
him, and me, as you have yourself 
seen. Now, look at this,’ continued 
the count, pulling up his horse, 4 will 
you kill the baron ? will you go 
straight to your own dishonor ? Say 
but the word, and I will lead you back 
to the chateau of Meridor.’ 

44 4 You spoke to me of a proof that 
you are still acting by my father’s in- 
structions. What is that proof?’ 

4 4 4 That proof is here,’ said the 
count, 4 take this letter, and at the 
first inn where we shall halt, read it. 
If, when you shall have read it, 
you desire to return to the chateau, 
I repeat to you, upon my honor, that 
you shall be free. But if you con- 
tinue to feel any respect for the in- 
structions of the barm, you will not 
return thither, I am certain.’ 

4 Come, then, Monsieur, and let us 
reach that first halting place as soon 
as possible ; for I am most anxious to 
learn that you are telling me the truth. ’ 
4 4 4 You remember that it is of your 
own free will that you follow me.’ 

44 4 Yes, of my owd free will, so 


* 

far as a young lady can be said to be 
free, in a position from which she 
sees on one side the death of her 
father, and her own dishonor ; and on 
the other, the obligation to trust 
implicitly in the word of a man whom 
she scarcely knows. But it matters 
not. I follow you freely, Monsieur, 
and you can render it certain that I 
do so, Monsieur, by giving me ahorse.’ 

44 The count instantly made a sign 
to one of his men, who dismounted. I 
jumped down also, from the count’s 
horse, and mounting the other, was 
in the saddle and at his side in a 
moment. 

44 4 The palfrey cannot be far off,’ 
he said to the man ; 4 seek her in the 
forest ; call her. You know that she 
comes like a dog to her name or to 
the whistle. You will rejoin us at 
L e Chat re.’ 

44 1 shuddered again in spite of my- 
self. La Chatre was thirty miles 
distant from the chateau of Meridor, 
beyond it on the road to Paris. 

44 4 Monsieur,’’ said I, 4 I accompa- 
ny you, but at La Cliatre we make our 
conditions.’ 

44 4 That is to say, Mademoiselle, 
at La Chatre you will give me your 
orders.’ 

44 That pretended obedience did 
not, however, in the least satisfy me. 
Nevertheless, as I had no choice, and 
as this seemed to be the only means 
within myj>ower of escaping from the 
Duke d’ Anjou, I continued to jour- 
ney onward in silence. At break of 
day we arrived at La Chatre, but, 
instead of entering the village, at 
about a hundred yards’ distance from 
the first gardens, we struck across the 
country, and took our way toward an 
isolated house. 

44 1 stopped my horse instantly. 

44 4 Whither are we going?’ I asked. 

4 4 4 Listen, Mademoiselle,’ said the 
count to me, 4 I have already re- 
marked the clearness of your intel- 
lect, and it is to your own intellect 
that I now appeal. Can we, flying 
the pursuit of the most poworfnl 
prince in France, after the King, can 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


35 


9 we, I say, stop at an ordinary inn, J 
and that, too, in the middle of a vil- 
lage, in which the fir-st peasant who 
sees may denounce us? One can 
buy the secresy of a man, but one 
cannot buy that of a whole village.’ 

44 There was something in all the 
replies of the count so logical, or, at 
least, so specious, that I had not an 
answer whereby to controvert them. 

44 4 Well,’ I said, 4 let us go on.’ 

44 And we set forward. We were 
expected. A man, without my per- 
ceiving it, had left our train and rid- 
den forward to prepare for us. A 
fire was burning; on the hearth of a 
tolerably clean apartment, and a bed 
was prepared. 

44 4 Here is your chamber, Made- 
moiselle,’ said the count, 4 I will await 
your orders.’ 

44 And he bowed and withdrew, 
leaving; me alone. 

44 My first care was to approach the 
lamp and to draw my father’s letter 
from my bosom. There it is, Mon- 
sieur de Bussy, I make you my judge, 
Read it.” 

Bussy took the letter, and read as 
follows : 

44 Diana, my best beloved, if, as I 
doubt not you have, obedient to my 
prayers, you have gone with Monsieur 
le Comte de Monsoreau, he will have 
told you ere this that you have been 
so unfortunate as to take the fancy 
of the Duke d’ Anjou, and that it is 
that prince who caused you to be car- 
ried off and lodged in the Chateau of 
Beauge. Judge, by this violence, of 
what the Duke is capable, and of 
what shame it is that threatens you. 
Well, there is but one mode by which 
you can escape that shame, which — 
should it fall upon you — I will not 
survive. That mode is to become the 
wife of our noble friend. Once Coun- 
tess of Monsoreau, it is his wife 
whom the count will be defending;, 
and he has sworn to me, that, by all 
means, he will defend you. It is my 
wish, therefore, my beloved girl, that 
this marriage, shall take place ns soon 
as possible, and, if thou wilt accede 


to my desire, to my very positive 
consent, I add my paternal benedic- 
tion, and pray God that he will grant 
you all those treasures of happiness 
which his love holds in reserve for 
hearts such as thine. 

44 Thy father, who does not com- 
mand, but who implores thee, 

44 The Baron de MeriduR.” 

44 Alas !’’ said Bussy, 44 if that let- 
ter be from your father, Madame, it 
is but too positive.’’ 

44 It is from him ; there is no doubt 
to be raised on that head ; neverthe- 
less, I read it over three times before 
coming to that conclusion. At length 
I called the count. 

44 He entered on the instant, which 
proves that he was waiting at thre 
door. 

44 I still held the letter in my 
hand. 

44 4 Well,’ he said, 4 have you read 
it?’ 

4 4 4 1 have,’ I replied. 

4 4 4 And do you still doubt my de- 
votion and respect ?’ 

4 4 4 Had I doubted both, Monsieur,' 
I replied, 4 this letter would have 
forced me to believe, and imposed 
on me the conviction that I lacked. 
Now, let us see, Monsieur ; suppose 
that I should be disposed to yield to 
my father’s wishes, what do you pur- 
pose to do ?’ 

4 4 4 1 purpose, Mademoiselle, to 
conduct you to Paris. It is there 
that it will be the most easy to con- 
ceal you.’ 

4 4 4 And my father ?’ 

4 4 4 You will know that wherever 
you may be, and whenever there shall 
be no more danger of compromising 
you, the baron will rejoin us.’ 

44 4 Well, Monsieur, I am ready to 
accept your protection on the condi- 
tions which you impose.’ 

44 4 4 1 impose nothing, Mademoi- 
selle,’ replied the count. 4 I offer a 
mode of preserving you — no more.” 

44 4 Well, I take back my words, 
and I say with you that I am ready 
to accept the means of safety which 
you offer, on these conditions.’ 


96 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


44 4 Name them, Mademoiselle,’ 
said the count. 

44 4 The first is, that Gertrude shall 
be restored to me.’ 

44 4 She is here,’ replied the count. 
44 4 The second is this, that we 
travel apart until we reach Paris.’ 

4 4 4 I was about, myself, to offer 
this separation, as a mode of satisfy- 
ing your delicacy.’ 

4 4 4 And the third — that our mar- 
riage, unless in consequence of some 
urgent need, admitted by myself, 
shall not take place until my father 
shall be present.’ 

44 4 That is my own warmest wish, 
and I reckon on his benediction to 
bring down upon us that of heaven.’ 
44 I stood astonished. I had ex- 
pected to find opposition to this 
three-fold expression of my will, and 
in lieu of it I found only the readiest 
acquiescence, and even anticipation of 
that which I desired. 

4 4 4 Now, Mademoiselle,’ said Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau, 4 allow me to 
give you some counsel.’ 

44 4 I listen, Monsieur.’ 

44 4 The first, is that you travel by 
night.’ 

4 4 4 I agree to that readily.’ 

44 4 Secondly, that you allow me to 
choose the resting-places which you 
shall occupy, and the roads by which 
you shall journey. All my precau- 
tions shall be taken to one end, that 
you shall escape the pursuit of the 
Duke d’Anjou.’ 

44 4 If you love me as you say you 
do, our interests will be the same. I 
have therefore no objection to make 
to that which you desire.’ 

44 4 To conclude, that when you 
arrive at Paris, you shall adopt the 
lodging which I shall have caused to 
be prepared for you, however simple 
or lonely it may be.’ 

44 4 I ask only to live concealed, 
Monsieur, and the more simple and 
retired, the better it will be suited to 
a fugitive.’ 

4 4 4 Then, since all points are mu- 
tually arranged between us, Made- 
moiselle, it only remains for me, ac- 


cording to the plan which you har£ 
traced out, to present my respects 
to you most humbly, to send your 
woman to you, and to busy myself 
about the route which you shall fel- 
low.’ 

4 4 4 On my part, Monsieur,’ I repli- 
ed, 4 I am a gentlewoman, even as 
you are a gentleman. Keep all your 
promises with me, and I will keep all 
mine with you.’ 

4 4 4 That is all that I ask,’ said the 
count, 4 and that promise assures me 
that I shall be the happiest of men.’ 

44 With these words, he bowed and 
retired. 

44 Five minutes afterward, Ger- 
trude entered my room. The delight 
of that good girl was excessive. She 
had imagined that it was intended 
to separate her from me for ever. I 
related to her all that had passed ; 
I had need of some person who 
should understand all my views, se- 
cond all my wishes, comprehend me, 
on occasion, at half a word, by the 
slightest gesture, and obey me on a 
sign or a motion. The great readi- 
ness with which Monsieur de Monso- 
reau acceded to my terms had alarmed 
me, and I feared some infringement of 
the treaty which had been made be- 
tween us 

44 As I ceased speaking to her, we 
heard the noise of a horse’s hoofs 
leaving the house. I ran to the win- 
dow. It was the count, returning at 
a full gallop, over the very road 
which we had followed. Wherefore 
should he take that road instead of 
proceeding ? I could not conjecture 
a reason. But he had accomplished 
the first article of his treaty in re- 
storing Gertrude to me, and he was 
accomplishing the second in with- 
drawing from the neighborhood, so 
that I had nothing to say. However, 
with whatever purpose he was depart- 
ing, still his departure gave me satis- 
faction and confidence. 

44 We passed all the day in our lit- 
tle cottage, waited upon by the mis- 
tress. In the evening, for the first 
time, he who appeared to be the chief 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATJ. 


97 


of our escort entered, and asked me 
for orders. As it appeared to me 
that the danger was greater so long as 
we were near to the chateau of Beauge, 
I told him that I was ready to set for- 
ward. Five minutes afterward he re- 
turned, and told me with a bow, that 
they waited for nothing but me. At 
the door, I found my white palfrey. 
As the Count of Monsoreau had ex- 
pected, she had returned at first call. 

u We travelled all night long, and 
halted as we had done the previous 
day, at day break. I calculated that 
we had travelled nearly five and forty 
miles. For the rest, all possible pre- 
cautions had been taken by Monsieur 
de Monsoreau, to prevent my suffer- 
ing either from cold or fatigue. The 
palfrey which had been selected for 
my use was remarkable for its gentle- 
ness and its easy amble, and as I left 
the house, a richly furred mantle was 
cast over my shoulders. 

44 The second halt was in all re- 
spects similar to the first, and all our 
nocturnal journeys corresponded with 
that which I have related. Always 
the same respect, and the same atten- 
tion ; on all sides the same care. It 
was evident that we were preceded by 
some one who made all preparations 
for our lodging. Was it the count ? 
1 know not, for performing that part 
of our agreement as exactly as he had 
done all the others, I did not see him 
once during our whole route. 

44 Toward the morning of the sev- 
enth day, from the summit of a hil- 
lock, I discovered a great mass of 
houses in the distance. It was Paris. 
We halted immediately to wait until 
it should be night, and when darkness 
had returned, once more proceeded on 
our way. Ere long, we passed under 
a gate, beyond which, the first object 
that met my eye, was an immense edi- 
fice, which by its gloomy walls I re- 
cognized for a monastery ; then we 
crossed twice, turned to the right, and 
after ten minutes’ riding, found our- 
selves in the place of the Bastile. 
There a man, who seemed to have 
been awaiting, came forth from the 

7 


shadow of a doorway, and approach- 
ing the leader of the escort, said these 
three words : 
u 4 It is here !’ * 

44 The chief of the escort turned 
around to me and said, 

44 4 You hear, Madame, wehave ar- 
rived,’ and leaping down from his 
horse, he offered me his hand to help 
me from my palfrey, as he had done 
at every stopping place, since he had 
journeyed with me. 

44 The door was open, and the 
staircase was lighted by a lamp plac- 
ed on one end of the steps. 

44 4 Madame,’ said the chief of the 
escort, 4 you are now at your own 
house. At this door ends the mission 
which I received, when I was ordered 
to accompany you ; may I flatter my- 
self that this mission has been accom- 
plished agreeably to your wishes, 
and with that respect which was en- 
joined upon us ?’ 

44 4 Yes, indeed, Monsieur,’ I said 
to him, 4 and I have now only to 
offer you my thanks. Tender them 
in my name td the worthy men who 
have attended me, I would fain re- 
compense them more worthily, but at 
present I possess nothing.’ 

4 4 4 Do not trouble yourself on that 
score, Madame,’ replied the person to 
whom I was making my excuses, 4 they 
are already largely recompensed. 

44 And mounting his horse again, 
after bowing to me deeply, 

4 4 4 Come, you fellows,’ he said, 

4 and take care that not one of you 
remember enough of this gate to-mor- 
row morning to recognize it if you 
Should see it again.’ 

44 And with the words, the little 
troop retired at a gallop, and were 
lost to view in the Rue Saint-An- 
tonie. 

44 The first care of Gertrude was to 
close the door, and it was through the 
wicket that we observed the retreat of 
our escort. 

44 Then we advanced toward the 
staircase lighted by the lamp, Gertrude 
took it up, and walked on before me. 
44 We ascended the steps, and 


98 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


found ourselves in the corridor ; the 
three doors were open. 

a We took that which was mid- 
most of the three, and entered the 
drawing-room in which we are now 
sitting. It was lighted as it is 
at this moment. 

44 I opened that door and found 
myself in a large dressing-room, that, 
which proved to be the door of my 
bed-chamber, in which, to my great 
astonishment, I found myself stand- 
ing opposite to my own portrait. 

u I recognized that which used to 
hang in my father’s chamber at Me- 
ridor ; the count had undoubtedly 
asked it of my father and obtained 
it. 


44 I shuddered at this new proof 
that my father regarded me already 
as the wife of Monsieur de Monso- 
reau. 

44 We examined the whole suite of 
apartments ; it was solitary, but 
nothing of any kind was wanting. 
There was fire on all the hearths, and 
m the dining-room a table handsome- 
ly laid for supper. 

44 I cast my eyes hastily over the 
table. It was laid with but one 
cover ; I was satisfied. 

44 4 Well, Mademoiselle,’ said Ger- 
trude, 4 you see that the count has 
kept his word at all points.’ 

44 4 Alas ! yes,’ I replied, 4 1 should 
have preferred that by breaking some 
part of his promises, he should have 
liberated me from mine.’ 

44 1 supped, and then, for the second 
time, we examined the whole house, 
it without meeting any living soul 
more than we had done the first time. 
It was ours, and ours only. 

44 Gertrude slept in my chamber. 

44 When morning had come, she 
went out and sought to discover where 
we were. It was then only that I 
learned from her that we were at the 
end of the Rue Saint-Antoine, oppo- 
site to the Hotel des Tournelles, and 
that the fortress which towered on the 
right was no other than the Bastille. 

44 For the rest, the information we 
bad gained availed me little. For I 


knew nothing of Paris, never having 
visited it before. 

44 The day passed without bringing 
anything new to pass, but in the eve- 
ning, just as I was sitting down to 
supper, some one knocked at the door. 

44 Gertrude and I gazed silently one 
at the other. 

44 The person knocked again. 

4 4 4 Go and see who knocks,’ said I. 

4 4 4 If it is the count ?’ she inquired, 
as she saw me turn pale. 

4 4 4 If it be the count,’ I replied, mak- 
ing an effort to compose myself, 4 open 
to him, Gertrude ; he has kept his pro- 
mises faithfully, and he shall see, 
that, like him, I keep mine.’ 

44 A moment afterward Gertrude 
returned. 

4 4 4 It is Monsieur le Comte, Ma* 
dame.’ 

4 4 4 Show him in,’ I replied 
44 Gertrude moved aside, and made 
way for the count, who appeared on 
the threshold. 

4 4 4 Well, Madame,’ he asked of me, 
4 Have I performed my part of it 
faithfully ?’ 

44 4 Yes, Monsieur,’ I replied, 4 and 
I thank you for it.’ 

4 4 4 Are you willing then to receive 
me in your house ?’ he added, with a 
smile from which he vainly endeavor- 
ed to banish a show, at least, of irony. 
4 4 4 Walk in, Monsieur.’ 

44 The count drew near, but remain- 
ed standing until I made him a sign 
to sit down. 

44 4 Have you any news, Monsieur?’ 
I asked of him. 

44 4 Whence and of whom, Madame ?’ 
4 4 4 Of my father, and of Meridor, 
before all.’ 

44 4 I have not been back to the 
chateau of Meridor, nor have I seen 
the baron.’ 

4 4 4 Then of Beauge and the Duke 
d’ Anjou ?’ 

4 4 4 That is a very different thing. 
I have been to Beauge, and seen tha 
duke.’ 

44 4 How did you find him ?’ 

4 4 4 Endeavoring to doubt.’ 

44 4 To doubt what ?’ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


99 


44 4 Your death.’ 

44 4 But you confirmed it to him ?’ 
44 4 In so far as I could ?’ 

44 4 And where is the duke ?’ 

44 4 He returned last night to Paris.’ 
44 4 Wherefore so hastily ?’ 

4 4 4 Because it is not very pleasant 
for any one to stay in a place, where 
he has to reproach himself with caus- 
ing the death of a woman.’ 

4 4 4 Have you seen him since he has 
been in Paris ?’ 

44 4 I have left him hut now.’ 

4 4 4 Did he speak to you of me ?’ 

4 4 4 I did not give him the time.’ 
44 4 Of what then did you speak to 
him ?’ 

44 4 Of a promise which he made 
me, and which I was pressing him to 
execute.’ 

4 4 4 What was it ?’ 

4 4 4 He had engaged himself, for ser- 
vices I have rendered him, to get me 
appointed grand master of the royal 
hounds.’ 

44 4 Ah ! yes,’ said I with a sad 
smile, for I remembered the death of 
poor Daphne. 4 You are, I remember, 
a keen huntsman, and as such, have 
a right to that place.’ 

4 4 4 It is not as a hunter that I ob- 
tain it, Madame, it is not because I 
have just claims to it, that I shall 
obtain , but because Monsieur the 
Duke d’ Anjou will not dare to be un- 
grateful to me.’ 

44 The^e was something in all these 
answers, in spite of the respectful 
language, in which they were couched, 
which terrified me. It was the ex- 
pression of a dark and indomitable 
will. 

44 I remained silent one moment. 

4 4 4 MVy I be permitted to write to 
my father ?’ I asked him at length. 

4 4 4 Undoubtedly. But consider 
that ynur letters maybe intercepted.’ 
4 4 4 Am i forbidden to go abroad.’ 
44 You are forbidden, Madame, 
to do nothing that you desire, but I 
would respectfully point out to you 
that you may easily be followed.’ 


4 4 4 It would be far better, I think, 
that you should omit hearing it ; but 
if you are set on it, hear it there, at 
least, it is the only piece of advice I 
give you on the subject. Over there, be 
pleased to remark, at the church of 
Sainte-Catherine. ” 

4 4 4 And where is that church ?’ 

4 4 4 Opposite to your house, on the 
other side of the street.’ 

4 4 4 I thank you, Monsieur.’ 

44 Then followed a fresh silence. 

4 4 4 When shall I see you again, 
Monsieur ?’ 

44 4 I await your permission to re- 
turn.’ 

4 4 4 Is it necessary that you should 
do so ?’ 

4 4 4 Undoubtedly it is, up to this 
time I am a stranger to you.’ 

4 4 4 Have you not the key of this 

house ?’ 

4 4 4 Your husband only has the 
right to a key. ’ 

4 4 4 Monsieur,’ said I, beginning to 
be so much alarmed at these strange- 
ly submissive answers, that I should 
almost have preferred absolute ones, 

4 Monsieur, you will return as often 
as it shall please you to do so, or as 
often as you shall have anything im- ' 
portant to say to me.’ 

4 4 4 Thanks, Madame ! I will use 
your permission, not abuse it. And 
the first proof that I will give you 
thereof, is that I will pray you to re- 
ceive my respects.’ 

44 And with the word the count arose. 

4 4 4 Are you about to leave me ?’ I 
exclaimed, more and mor^astonished 
at this mode of conduct, which I was 
certainly far from expecting. 

4 4 4 Madame,’ replied the count, 4 1 
know that you do not love me, and I 
1 do not- desire to take advantage of 
, the situation in which you are placed, 
and which compel you to receive 
my attentions. In presenting myself 
to you but rarely, I hope that, by de- 
grees, you will become accustomed to 
my presence, so that when the mo- 
j ment shall arrive, it will cost you less 


u 


mass 


4 But 1 must at least^go and hear to become m^wife.’ 
on Sunday.’ ; i 4 4 4 Monsieur,’ said I, 


rising m 


my 


» » 


100 


DIANA OF MERIDORj OR, 


turn, * I recognize all tlie delicacy of 
your proceedings, and notwithstand- 
ing the sort of rudeness which ac- 
companies all your words, I appreci- 
ate it. You are right, and I will 
speak to you with all the frankness 
which you use towards me. I had, 
I confess, some prejudices at the first, 
which I hope that time will eradicate 
or cure.’ 

44 4 Permit me, Madame,’ said the 
count, 4 to join you in this hope, and 
to live in the expectation of that 
happy moment.’ 

44 Then bowing to me with all the 
respect which was due to me from the 
humblest of my servants, he made a 
sign to Gertrude, before whom the 
whole of the conversation had taken 
place, to light him down the stairs, 
aad thereupon withdrew.’’ 


CHAPTER III. 

WHO WAS DIANA OF MERIDOR. — THE 

MARRIAGE. 

44 Upon my soul, this is a strange 
man,” said Bussy. 

44 Oh ! yes, very strange, is he not, 
Monsieur ? For all his love toward 
me partakes the character of hatred. 
Gertrude, on her return, found me 
sad, and more alarmed than ever. 

44 She endeavored to console me, 
but it was Evident that the poor girl 
w T as herself as uneasy as I. That 
ice-cold respect, that ironical obedi- 
ence, that constrained passion which 
vibrated in harsh notes in his every 
word, were more alarming than the 
open expression of a determination, 
which, in that case, I might have com- 
bated. 

44 The following day was Sunday. 
Never, since I can remember anything, 
have I failed to be present at divine 
offices. I heard the bell of the church 
of Sainte-Catherine, which seemed 
to be summoning me. I saw all the 


world taking their way toward the 
house of God, I wrapped myself in a 
thick veil, and, followed by Gertrude* 
I mixed in the crowd of devotees who 
were answering the summons of the 
holy bells. 

44 I sought the darkest corner, and 
went to kneel against the wall. Ger- 
trude placed herself, like a sentinel, 
betweemthe crowd and myself. For 
that time her precaution was useless, 
no one appeared to pay the least at- 
tention to us. 

44 On the day but one after that, 
the count returned and informed me 
that he had been appointed Master 
of the Royal Hounds. The interest 
of the Duke d’Anjou had procured 
this place, which had been almost 
promised to one of the king’s friends 
named M. de St. Luc. It was a 
triumph for which he scarcely looked 
himself.” 

44 I can believe that well,” said 
Bussy, 44 for it astonished every one of 
us.” 

44 He came to announce this news 
to me, in the hope that this accession 
to his dignity would accelerate my 
consent. Still he was not pressing, 
much less urgent. He insisted on 
nothing, urged nothing, but hoped, 
he said, everything from my promises 
and the course of events. 

44 As for me, I was beginning to hope, 
that as the Duke d’Anjou believed me 
to be dead, and as the danger existed 
no longer, I should cease to be held 
as engaged to the count. 

44 Seven other days elapsed, bring- 
ing no new event, unless it were two vi- 
sits from the count. These visits, like 
all that had preceded them, were cold 
and respectful. But I have explained 
to you already, how singular, 1 might 
almost say, how menacing was this 
coldness. 

44 The following Sunday, I went to 
church, as I had done before, and 
resumed the same place which 1 had 
occupied the previous week. Security 
had rendered me imprudent. In the 
middle of my prayers my veil was 
disarranged^-iu the house of God, 

C? c * 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


101 


moreover, I thought of God alone — 
I was praying for my father ardently, 
when, on a sudden, I felt Gertrude 
touch my arm. A second pressure 
of my arm was required to arouse me 
from the sort of religious ecstasy 
into which I had fallen. I raised my 
head, I looked around me mechanical- 
ly, and saw, with terror, the Duke 
d’ Anjou leaning against a pillar, and 
devouring me with his eyes. 

u A man, who seemed to be his 
confidant rather than his servant, 
stood beside him.” 

44 It was Aurilly,” said Bussy, 
u his lute player.” 

64 In truth,” said Diana, 44 I think 
that is the name which Gertrude told 
me afterward.” 

u Proceed, Madame,” said Bussy, 
44 proceed, I entreat you. I now be- 
gin to understand the whole.” 

44 I drew my veil back over my face 
quickly, but it was too late ; he had 
seen me, and if he had not recog- 
nized me, my resemblance, at least, 
to the woman, whom he had loved 
and believed to be lost for ever, had 
struck him. Ill at ease under the 
ardent gaze which he fixc$l upon me, 
I rose from my knees and turned to- 
ward the door. But at the door I 
found him before me ; he had dipped 
his finders in the font and offered me 
the holy water. 

44 I pretended not to observe him, 
and passed on without accepting his 
offer. 

“It was needless for me to turn 
my head ; without looking back, I 
understood that we were followed. 
Had I known anything of Paris, I 
should have turned into some other 
street than that which led to my own 
house, and so endeavored to mislead 
the duke as to the real situation of 
my residence. I knew no person of 
whom I could ask hospitality for a 
quarter of an hour ; I had not a 
friend, not a defender, save one whom 
I dreaded worse even than an enemy.” 
44 Oh, my God !” murmured Bussy, 
“ wherefore did not heaven, or Provi- 


dence, or chance, throw me into your 
way at an earlier period.” 

Diana thanked the young man with 
her eloquent eye, and he exclaimed : 
44 But pardon me, I am continually 
interrupting you, and yet I am dying 
with curiosity to hear the end. Pro- 
ceed, I entreat you.” 

“ That same evening Monsieur de 
Monsoreau came to visit me. I was 
still doubting whether I should tell 
him of my adventure, when he ob- 
served my hesitation, and addressed 
me on the subject. 

u ‘ You asked me,’ he said, 4 whe- 
ther it was forbidden to you to go to 
mass, and I replied that you were 
the sovereign mistress of your own 
actions, and that it would be better 
you should not go to mass at all ; but 
you would not believe me. This 
morning you went ouf>, to hear mass 
at Saint Catherine’s church. The 
prince was there by chance, I should 
say rather by fatality, and saw you.’ 
44 4 It is too true, Monsieur,’ said 
I, 4 and I hesitated whether I omrht 
to tell you of the circumstance, for I 
was ignorant whether he recognized 
me for the person I am, or whether 
he was merely struck by my appear- 
ance.’ 

44 4 He was struck by your appear- 
ance, and your resemblance to the 
woman he still regrets appeared to 
him most extraordinary. He fol- 
lowed you, and made inquiries, but 
he could gain no information from 
any one, for there is no one who 
knows anything about you.’ 

44 4 My God, Monsieur, and what 
do you think I ought to do ?’ I ex- 
claimed. 

4 4 4 The duke has a dark and perse- 
vering spirit,’ replied Monsieur de 
Monsoreau. 

4 4 4 Oh ! he will forget me, I hope.’ 
4 4 4 I think nothing of the kind. 
You are not so easily forgotten. I 
did all that I could myself to forget 
you, but could not.’ 

44 And the first gleam of passion 
which I ever saw light the features of 


102 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Monsieur de Monsoreau, passed at j 
that moment through the eyes of the 
count. 

44 I was more terrified at the flame 
which I saw gleam at that instant, 
and from that focus, than I had been, 
in the morning, at sight of the prince. 

44 I remained silent. 

44 4 What do you propose to do ?’ 
asked the count. 

44 4 Can I not change my residence, 
Monsieur ; change the street, the 
quarter in which 1 live. Can I not 
move to the other end of Paris, or, 
better yet, return to Anjou ?’ ” 

44 4 It would be useless all,’ said 
Monsieur de Monsoreau. 4 The 
prince is a terribly staunch blood- 
hound. He is on your track ; go 
whither you will, he will follow it 
until he shall overtake you.’ 

4 4 4 Oh, my God ! how you terrify 
me !’ 

4 4 4 It is not my intention to do so. 

I merely tell you how things stand, 
and no more.’ 

44 4 It is I, then, who will now, in 
my turn, put to you the question, 
which but now you put to me 
What would you have me to do in 
this case, Monsieur ?’ 

44 4 Alas !’ replied the Count de 
Monsoreau, with bitter irony, 4 I am 
a man, for my part, with few re- 
sources of imagination. I found one 
method ; that method suits you not. 

I give it up ; but ask me not to seek 
another.’ 

44 4 But, my God,’ I exclaimed, 

4 perchance the danger is less pressing 
than you imagine it to be.’ 

44 4 It is the future which must 
teach you that, Madame,’ said the 
count, rising. 4 At all events, I re- 
peat it to you, Madame de Monso- 
reau will have so much the less to 
fear from the pursuit of the prince, 
as my new office attaches me directly 
to the person of the King, and that 
I and my wife shall naturally be safe 
under the King’s protection.’ 

44 I replied only by a sigh ; the 
arguments urged by the count were 
full of reason and sound sense. 


44 Monsieur de Monsoreau waited a 
moment, as if to give me the time to 
answer him, but I lacked the strength 
to do so. He was standing upright, 
ready to retire. A bitter smile pass- 
ed over his lips, he bowed and with- 
drew. 

44 I thought I heard a burst of im- 
precations escape his lips as he de- 
scended the stairs. 

44 I called Gertrude. 

44 Gertrude was in the custom of 
awaiting, either in the dressing-room 
or in the bed-chamber, whenever the 
count visited me. She came to my call. 

44 I was at the window, wrapped in 
the curtains, so that, without being 
seen, I could see everything that was 
passing in the street. 

44 The count went forth from the 
door, and was soon out of sight. 

44 We remained nearly an hour at 
the window, but no one came down 
the street. The night passed without 
any alarm. 

44 On the following day, Gertrude, 
as she went out, was accosted by a 
young man, whom she recognized at 
once as the companion of the prince 
on the preceding night. But, to all 
his urgency, she refused to reply ; to 
all his questions she was mute. 

44 The young man returned home 
wearied with his fruitless efforts. 

44 This meeting inspired me with 
deep apprehensions. It clearly was 
the commencement of investigations, 
the end of which it would not be so 
easy to discover. 1 feared that Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau would not come, 
and that some attempt would be 
made on me that very night. I sent 
to summon him ; he came on the in- 
stant. 

44 I told him all that had occurred, 
and I described to him the appear- 
ance of the young man, as Gertrude 
had described it. 

4 4 4 It is Aurilly,’ said he, 4 what 
reply did Gertrude make ?’ 

44 4 Gertrude made him no reply at 
all.’ 

44 Monsieur de Monsoreau reflected 
for a moment., 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


103 


44 4 She was wrong,’ said he. 

44 4 Wherefore wrong ? ’ 

44 4 Because it is time that we wish 
to gain.’ 

4 4 4 Time?’ 

4 4 4 Yes, time. To-day, I am still 
dependent on the Duke d’Anjou; but 
in a fortnight, perhaps even in a 
week, it is the Duke d’Anjou who 
will be in my power. The business, 
then, is to deceive him, so that he 
may wait awhile.’ 

4 4 4 My God!’ 

4 4 4 Doubtless hope will render him 
patient. A complete refusal would 
drive him to take some desperate 
step.’ 

44 4 Monsieur, write to my father !’ 
I exclaimed, 4 my father will hurry 
up, and cast himself at the feet of 
the King. The King will have com- 
passion on an old man.’ 

4 4 4 That is altogether according to 
the state of mind in which the King 
may chance to be at the time, and ac- 
cording as his political relations may 
be friendly or unfriendly with Mon- 
sieur the Duke d’Anjou. Moreover, 
it will require six days for a messen- 
ger to go to your father in Anjou, 
and as many more for him to return 
thence. Before twelve days are over, 
unless we shall have arrested his pro- 
gress, M. the Duke d’Anjou will have 
made all the progress that he can 
make.’ 

44 4 And how can we arrest him ?’ 

4 4 Monsieur de Monsoreau made no 
reply ; but I understood his silence 
and dropped my eyes. 

44 4 Monsieur,’ said I, after a mo- 
ment’s silence, 4 give your instruc- 
tions to Gertrude, and they shall be 
obeyed to the letter.’ 

44 An imperceptible smile flitted 
across the lips of Monseigneur de 
Monsoreau, at that, my first appeal to 
Ilia protection. 

44 He conversed a few minutes with 
Gertrude. 

44 4 Madame,’ said he to me, that 
ended, 4 I may be seen leaving your 
house, it wants but two or three hours 
of the night, will you permit me, 


then, to pass those two or three hours 
in your apartments ?’ 

44 He might, it is true, have claim- 
ed this privilege as a right, but he 
contented himself with asking it as a 
favor. I made him a sign to be 
seated. 

44 Then it was that I observed the 
extraordinary empire which the count 
possessed over his feelings. On the 
instant, he conquered every feeling of 
awkwardness that might have been 
the result of our peculiar position, 
and his conversation, to which that 
sort of asperity which I have describ- 
ed gave a character of strength and 
energy, began to be various and at- 
tractive. The count had travelled 
much, seen much, thought much, and, 
before the two hours were at an end, 
I no longer wondered at the influence 
which this strange man had gained 
over my father.” 

Bussy sighed deeply at these words. 

44 Night fallen, without insisting, 
without asking anything farther, and, 
as if satisfied with what he had ob- 
tained, he rose up and went his way. 

44 During the night, Gertrude and 
I kept watch at our post. This time, 
we saw two men examining the house. 
Several times they approached the 
door ; all internal light was extin- 
guished, and they could not perceive 
us. 

44 On the following morning, Ger- 
trude again went out, and found the 
young man waiting for her at the same 
place. He drew near to her again, 
and questioned her as he had done on 
the previous day. That day Ger- 
trude was less austere, and exchanged 
a few words with him. 

44 Again on the following day Ger- 
trude met him, and was yet more 
communicative ; she told him that I 
was the widow of a councillor, who, 
having been left without fortune, 
lived a very retired life. He wished 
to insist on being informed further, 
but for the time he was obliged to 
rest content with so much information 
only. 

44 The next day after that, it would 


104 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


appear that Aurilly entertained some 
doubt of the truth of the tale told 
him the previous day. He spoke of 
Anjou, of Beauge, and uttered even 
the word Meridor. 

44 Gertrude replied that every one of 
these names was entirely new and un- 
known to her. 

44 Then he confessed to her that he 
belonged to the household of the 
Duke d’Anjou — that the Duke d’An- 
jou had seen me, and was in love 
with me, and as a conclusion to this 
avowal, he made magnificent offers 
both to her and to me — to her if she 
would admit, and to me if I would 
receive, the prince. 

44 Every evening, Monsieur deMon- 
soreau came to hear what we had to 
tell him. He stayed from eight o’clock 
until midnight, but it was evident 
that he was exceedingly uneasy. 

44 On Saturday evening he came, 
paler and more agitated than his 
wont. 

44 4 Listen to me,’ he said, 4 you 
must promise the duke everything for 
Tuesday or Wednesday next.’ 

44 4 Promise everything, and where- 
fore ?’ I exclaimed. 

44 4 Because Monsieur the Duke d’ 
Anjou has arranged everything ; be- 
cause he is on the best terms with the 
King ; and because, consequently, we 
have nothing to hope from that quar- 
ter. 5 

44 4 But is there anything between 
this and Wednesday, which may turn 
up to your assistance ?’ 

4 4 4 Perhaps there maybe something. 
I expect from day to day the occur- 
rence of an event which will put the 
duke in my power. I am hastening 
it, and pushing it on, by all means, 
not by words only, but by deeds. 
Moreover, I must leave you and g° 
to Monsoreau !’ 

4 4 4 You must,’ I exclaimed, with a 
gtrange mixture of terror and joy. 

' 4 4 4 Yes. I have an appointment 
there, which is indispensable to the 
hastening of the circumsta, ce, of 
which I spoke to you.’ 

44 4 And if, on Tuesday, we are in 


the same situation as at present, 
what, oh my God, what must we do ?’ 

4 4 4 What would yoa have me do, 
Madame, against a prince, when I 
have no title to defend you? We 
must resign ourselves to our ill for- 
tune.’ 

44 4 Oh my father ! my father !’ I 
exclaimed. 

44 The count gazed at me fixedly. 

4 4 4 Then you detest me ?’ he said. 

4 4 4 Oh ! Monsieur.’ 

4 4 4 What have you with which to 
reproach me ?’ 

4 4 4 Nothing, Monsieur; far other- 
wise.’ 

44 4 Have I not been as devoted as 
a lover, as respectful as a brother ? 5 

4 4 4 You have conducted yourself 
in all points as a gallant gentleman. 5 
44 4 Have I not your promise ?’ 

4 4 4 You have it. 5 

4 4 4 Have I ever recalled it to you, 
even once ? 5 
4 4 4 Never. 5 

4 4 4 And yet when circumstances are 
such that you must decide between 
choosing to yourself an honorable 
position, or a base situation ; you 
prefer to be the mistress of the Duke 
d’Anjou, rather than the wife of the 
Count of Monsoreau.’ 

4 4 4 I did not say so, Monsieur. 5 
44 4 Wherefore, then, not decide ?* 

44 4 1 have decided.’ 

4 4 4 To be the Countess of Monso- 
reau ?’ 

44 Rather than the mistress of the 
Duke d’Anjou. 5 

4 4 4 Rather than the mistress of the 
Duke d’Anjou ! In truth the alter- 
native is flattering.’ 

44 1 held my tongue. 

44 4 It matters not,’ said the count, 
4 you hear me — let Gertrude gain 
time until Tuesday, and on Tuesday 
we will see. 5 

44 On the following morning Ger- 
trude went out as usual, but she did 
not meet Aurilly. On her return we 
were more alarmed at his absence, 
than we should have been at his pre- 
sence. Gertrude went out again ; 
then she had no need to do so, except 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


105 


to meet him. But she met him not. 
A third time, and she was still unsuc- 
cessful. 

u 1 sent Gertrude to the hotel of 
Monsieur de Monsoreau ; he had gone 
abroad, and his people knew not where 
he was to be heard of. 

u We were alone and isolated, we 
felt all our weakness. Now, the first 
time, I began to see that I had been 
unjust to the count.” 

44 Oh Madame,” exclaimed Bussy, 
44 do not so readily alter your opinion 
of this man; there is something in 
his conduct that is not easy to un- 
derstand, but in the end we will un- 
derstand it.” 

44 The evening came, accompanied 
with the deepest terrors. I had resolv- 
ed on the last resource of the wretch- 
ed, rather than to fall into the hands 
of the Duke d’ Anjou. I had pro- 
vided myself with this poniard, and 
had determined on stabbing myself 
before the prince’s eyes, the moment 
he, or his people, should attempt to lay 
hands upon me. We barricaded our- 
selves in our own chambers ; for, by 
some strSnge oversight, the door of 
the alley opening on the street had no 
interior bolt. We extinguished our 
lamp, and placed ourselves at our 
post of observation. 

44 Until eleven o’clock all was still. 
At eleven o’clock, five men filed down 
the Rue St. Antoine, appeared to hold 
counsel for a few minutes, and then 
went and placed themselves in am- 
bush at the corner of the wall of the 
Hotel des Tournellcs. 

u We began to tremble. These 
men were there, probably, in order to 
act against us. 

c 

44 Nevertheless they remained sta- 
tionary. Nearly a quarter of an hour 
passed thus. 

u At the end of a quarter of an 
hour, we saw two other men appear 
at the corner of the Rue Saint-Paul. 
The moon, which was shining out be- 
tween two clouds, permitted Gertrude 
to recognize one of these men. It was 

V. > 

Aurilly. 


44 4 Alas, Mademoiselle,’ murmur- 
ed the poor girl, 4 these are they.’ 

44 4 Yes,’ I replied, shuddering in 
every limb with terror, 4 and the other 
five are there to assist them.’ 

4 4 4 But they will have to break 
open the door,’ said Gertrude, 4 and 
the neighbors will run up at the 
sound.’ * 

4 4 4 Wherefore should the neighbors 
run up ? Do they know us, or have 
they any motives, that they should 
thrust themselves into a desperate 
affair to defend us ? Alas, in truth, 
Gertrude, we have no true defender 
but the count.’ 

4 4 4 Well, wherefore then do you 
always refuse to be the countess ?’ 

44 I only sighed in answer. Dur- 
ing this time, the two men, who had 
appeared at the corner of the Rue 
Saint-Paul, had glided along the 
walls of the houses, and now stood 
close beneath our window. 

44 We opened the casement gently 
4 4 4 Art thou sure that it is here 
asked a low voice. 

44 4 Perfectly sure, Monseigneur. It 
is the fiftieth house from the corner 
of the Rue Saint-Paul.’ 

4 4 4 And do you think the key will 
fit it p 

44 4 I took the print from the lock 
in wax.’ 

44 I clasped Gertrude’s arm, and 
pressed it violently. 

44 4 And when we are once within ?’ 
4 4 4 When we are once within it is 
my affair. The servant-girl will open 
to us, and your Highness has a golden 
key in your pocket, which will unlock 
her heart to you, as readily as this 
the door.’ 

4 4 4 Open, then, come.’ 

44 We heard the key grating in tho 
wards of the lock. But at that in 
stant, the five m A n whom we had seen 
place themselves in ambush at the 
angle of the Hotel des Tournelles, 
rushed out from the shadows of the 
wall, and charged toward Aurilly and 
the prince, crying, 4 death! death !’ 

44 I understood naught of this : 


10G 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR. 


only it appeared to be an unexpected, 
unhoped, unlooked for succor, which 
had thus come to us. I fell on my 
knees, and returned thanks to heaven. 

44 But the prince had but to show 
himself, the prince had but to men- 
tion his name, when all the voices 
were silent, all the swords sheathed, 
and all the assailants made one step 
backward. ’’ 

44 Yes, yes,” said Bussy, u it was 
not the prince they wanted, it was I.” 

44 At all events,” said Diana, 
44 that attack drove away the pringe, 
the danger was removed from me ; 
for it was not against me that these 

f entlemen had any ill intentions. 

>ut we were too anxious and too 
much excited to retire to sleep. We 
remained, therefore, standing beside 
the window, and expected some un- 
known event, which we felt certain 
was on the point of taking place be- 
fore us. 

44 We had not long to wait. A 
man on horseback appeared coming 
down the middle of the Rue Saint- 
Antoine. It was he, without a doubt, 
for whom the five gentlemen were 
lying in wait, for as soon as they per- 
ceived him they rushed forward, cry- 
ing, 4 To your swords ! to your swords /’ 
44 You know all that passed in re- 
lation to that gentleman,” said 
Diana, 44 inasmuch as you are that 
gentleman yourself.” 

44 On the contrary, Madame,” said 
Bussy, who hoped from the young 
lady’s narrative to gather something 
that might throw a light on the state 
of her heart, u on the contrary, I 
know nothing of it, since I fainted 
immediately on the termination of 
the combat.” 

44 It is useless for me to tell you,” 
said Diana, blushing deeply, 44 the 
interest which I took in that contest , 
so unequal, and yet so valiantly main- 
tained. Every episode of the com- 
bat caused us to shudder, to utter a 
cry, or a prayer. We saw your horse 
give way and fall, and we thought 
you lost already ; but it was nothing, 
and the brave Bussy merited his re- 


putation. You alighted on your 
feet in falling, and had no need even 
to arise before striking your enemies 
At length, surrounded, menaced on 
all sides, you retreated like the lion, 
with your face toward your foes, and 
came and leaned against our door. 
Then the same thought crossed my 
mind and that of Gertrude. It was 
to run down and let you in. She 
looked at me, and I cried 4 Yes 
and we both darted together to the 
staircase. But I told you that we had 
barricaded our rooms, and required 
some little time before we could un- 
bar them, and remove the furniture 
with which we had obstructed the 
passage, and at the moment when we 
reached the landing-place, we heard 
the street door closing upon some one 
who had entered. 

44 We stood silent, motionless ; 
who could it be that had entered, and 
how had he gained admission ? 

o 

44 I leaned against Gertrude, and 
we waited in awful expectation. 

44 Ere long, we heard steps ap- 
proaching in the alley ; they drew 
near to the staircase. A *man ap- 
peared, tottering, with extended 
arms, and fell on the first steps, ut- 
tering a deep groan. 

44 It was evident that the man was 
not pursued, and that the door, for- 
tunately opened by the Duke d’An- 
jou, had closed between him and his 
adversaries, while he, grievously 
wounded, perhaps wounded unto 
death, had fallen at our stair-foot. 

44 At all events we had nothing to 
apprehend. It was the man, on the 
contrary, who needed our assistance. 

4 4 4 The lamp !’ I cried to Gertrude. 

44 She ran and returned with it in 
an instant. 

44 We were not mistaken, you had 
fainted ; we recognized you for the 
brave gentleman whom we had seen 
defending himself so valiantly against 
such fearful odds, and without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, we resolved to give 
you our assistance. 

44 In a moment you were brought 
into my chamber, and laid on my bed 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


107 


44 Bat you had fainted, and showed 
no signs of recovery. The aid of a 
chirurgeon appeared to he indispensa- 
ble. Gertrude remembered that she 
had heard tell of a marvellous cure, 
performed a few days previous by a 
doctor in the Rue — in the Rue Beau- 
treillis. She knew his address. She 
offered to 2*0 and find him. 

O 

44 4 But,’ said I to her, 4 this young 
man may betray us.’ 

44 4 Be not alarmed,’ she replied, 
4 I will take my precautions.’ 

44 She was a brave girl, and pru- 
dent at the same time,” continued 
Diana. 44 I trusted myself, therefore, 
to her altogether. She took some 
money, a key, and my poniard, and 
I was left alone beside you, and pray- 
ing for you.” 

44 Alas !” said Bussy, 44 and I 
knew not all my happiness, Madame.” 
44 A quarter of an hour afterward 
Gertrude returned, bringing with her 
the young surgeon. He had consented 
at once, and accompanied her blind- 
folded. 

44 1 remained in the drawing-room 
while he was brought into the cham- 
ber. She was permitted to take off 
the bandage from his eyes.” 

44 Yes,” said Bussy, 44 it was at 
that moment that I recovered my 
senses, that my eyes fell upon your 
portrait, and that I thought I saw 
you enter the room.” 

44 I did enter it. My anxiety was 
greater than my prudence. I ex- 
changed a few words with the young 
doctor. He examined your wound, 
and undertook your cure, and reliev- 
ed me of my anxiety.” 

44 All this remained fixed in my 
memory,” said Bussy, 44 but as a 
dream remains ; and yet there was 
something here,” added the young 
man, laying his hand on his heart, 
44 which told me that it was somethin^ 

o 

more than a dream.” 

44 When the chirurgeon had dressed 
your wound, he drew from his pocket 
a little phial containing some red 
liquor, and poured a few drops of that 
liqucr on your lips. It was, he told 


| me, an elixir intended to put you to 
sleep, and to counteract the effects 
of fever. 

44 And in fact an instant after you 
had swallowed it, you closed your eyes, 
and fell again into that sort of swoon 
from which you had awakened but a 
moment before. 

44 I became alarmed. But the doc- 
tor re-assured me ; all was going as 
well as possible, he said, and there 
was nothing now to be done but to let 
you sleep. 

44 Gertrude bandaged his eyes 
again with her handkerchief, and led 
him back to the door of his house in 
the Rue Beautreillis. She fancied, 
however, that she could perceive that 
he was counting his steps.” 

44 In truth, Madame,” said Bussy, 

44 he was counting them.” 

44 That supposition alarmed us. 
'This young man might betray us. 
We resolved on removing all traces of 
the hospitality which we had extend- 
ed to you, but the first and most im- 
portant step, was to remove you out 
of sight yourself. 

44 I called up all my courage. It 
was two o’clock in the morning — the 
streets were deserted. Gertrude said 
she was certain of being. able to lift 
you. She succeeded in doing so. I 
aided her, and together we carried . 
you as far as to the talus of the 
Temple fosse. Then we returned 
home, terrified at our own daring, to 
think that we two women^should have 
gone forth alone, at an hour when 
even brave men go not forth unac- 
companied. 

44 God watched over us, however. 
We met no person, and returned to 
our own house unseen and unsus- 
pected. 

44 As we returned, mv strength was 
unequal to support so many conflict- 
ing emotions, and I fainted.” 

44 Oh ! Madame, Madame,” said 
Bussy, clasping his hands together, 

44 how shall I ever be sufficiently grate- 
ful for all that you have done in my 
behalf?” 

There was a momentary silence, 


108 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


during which Bussy gazed passion- 
ately on Diana, while the young lady 
with her soft elbow leaning on the 
table, suffered her head to fall into 
her hand. 

In the midst of this silence, the 
church clock of Saint-Catharine’s 
sent forth its deep and thrilling 
tones. 

44 Two o’clock,” cried Diana, 
shuddering. a Two o’clock, and you 
here !” 

44 Oh Madame,” said Bussy, in a 
voice of supplication, 44 do not send 
me away until you shall have told me 
the whole. Do ndt send me away until 
you shall have pointed out to me by 
what means I may render myself useful 
to you. Imagine that God has given 
you a brother, and tell that brother 
how he may serve his sister.” 

44 Alas ! in nothing now,” said the 
young lady, 44 it is all too late.” 

44 What happened the next day ?” 
asked Bussy. 44 What did you on that 
day in which I thought of nothing but 
you, although I was not sure that you 
were more than a dream of my deli- 
rium, a vision of my fever ?” 

44 During the day,” replied Diana, 
44 Gertrude went out and met Aurilly. 
Aurilly was more pressing than ever. 
He said not one word of that which 
* had passed on the preceding night, 
but very urgently prayed for an inter- 
view in behalf of his master. 

44 Gertrude appeared to consent, 
but she asked until the following 
Wednesday, that is until to-day, for 
her decision. 

44 Aurilly promised that until then 
his master would constrain himself. 

44 We had, therefore, three days 
before us. 

44 In the evening of that day Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau returned. 

u We told him everything, except 
that which related to you. We told 
him that, on the previous night, the 
duke had opened the door with a false 
key, but on the very moment when 
he was on the point of entering, he 
was charged by five gentlemen, among 
whom were Messieurs D’Epernon, and 


De Quelus. I had heard these two 
names pronounced, and I repeated 
them. 

44 4 Yes, yes,’ said the count, 4 I 
have heard tell of that, too. He had 
a false key, then. I suspected as much . 1 

44 4 Cannot the lock be changed ?’ 

44 4 He will have another made.’ 

4 4 4 Cannot bolts be put on the 
doors ?’ 

4 4 4 He will come with ten men and 
force them.’ 

4 4 4 But that event on which you 
counted, by which you expected, as 
you told me, to have the duke entire- 
ly within your power ?’ 

4 4 4 It is delayed indefinitely — per- 
haps for ever.’ 

44 I remained thunderstruck and 
dumb. The icy perspiration stood on 
my forehead. I did not dissemble 
that there was no other method of es- 
caping the pursuit of the Duke d’An- 
jou but by becoming the wife of the 
count. 

4 4 4 Monsieur,’ said I to him, 4 the 
duke has bound himself by the voice 
of his confidant, to await until Wed- 
nesday evening. I ask of you until 
Tuesday.’ 

4 4 4 On Tuesday evening, at this 
very hour, I will be here, Madame.’ 

44 And without adding another 
word, he arose and left the room. 

44 I followed him with my eyes, but 
instead of retiring, he went and sta- 
tioned himself in that dark angle of 
the Rue des Tournelles, and appear- 
ed determined to watch that night 
over my safety. 

44 Every proof of that man’s devo- 
tion was but a fresh dagger wound 
dealt to my very heart. 

44 The two days passed away with 
the rapidity of lightning ; nothing 
disturbed our solitude : now to de- 
scribe my agonies during those two 
days, as I heard the flight of each 
successive hour, were a useless at- 
tempt. 

44 When the ni^ht of the second 
day arrived, I was worn out ; all 
sense and sensibility appeared to have 
been deadened by slow degre< 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


109 


in me. I was cold, silent, insensible 
in appearance as a statue ; my heart 
alone beat, the rest of my body seem- 
ed to have ceased to live. 

44 Gertrude was at the window. I 
sat where I sit now,' 'immovable, save 
that at times I wiped away the ice- 
cold drops of terror from my forehead 
with my kerchief. 

44 Suddenly, Gertrude stretched out 
her hand toward me. But even that 
gesture, which at another moment 
would have made me start, found me 
impassive. 

u%i Madame,’ said she, 4 Oh Ma- 
dame !’ 

44 4 What is it ?’ I inquired. 

44 4 Four men — I see four men ap- 
proaching from that direction. They 
are opening the door — they are enter- 
ing.’ 

44 4 Let them enter,’ I replied, with- 
out so much as moving. 

44 4 But these four men are undoubt- 
edly the Duke d’ Anjou, Aurilly, and 
two men of their suite.’ 

44 As my sole reply, I unsheathed 
my poniard, and laid it by my side 
on the table. 

4 4 4 Oh ! let me see first who it is,’ 
cried Gertrude, darting toward the 
door. 

44 4 See,’ I replied. 

A moment afterward, she returned 
into the room. 

44 4 Mademoiselle,’ said she, 4 it is 
Monsieur le Comte.’ 

14 I replaced my poniard in my 
breast, without uttering a word, but 
turned away my head from the face 
of the count. Undoubtedly he ob- 
served my paleness, for he came up 
to me and said : 

44 4 What is this that Gertrude tells 
me, that you took me for the duke ; 
and that had it been he, you would 
have killed yourself?’ 

44 It was the first time I had ever 
seen him moved. Now, was his emo- 
tion real or feigned ? 

44 4 Gertrude did wrongly to tell 
you that, Monsieur,’ I replied ; 4 from 
the moment in which it appeared that 
it was not the duke, all is well.’ 


44 Then followed a moment of 
deep silence. 

4 4 4 You know that I have not come 
hither alone,’ said the count. 

4 4 4 Gertrude counted four men.’ 

4 4 4 Have you any suspicion who 
they are ?’ 

44 4 1 presume that the one is a 
priest, and that the two others are 
witnesses.’ 

4 4 4 You are prepared, then, to bB 
come my wife ?’ 

4 4 4 Is it not a thing already deter- 
mined ? Only Irecollect the treaty. 
It was agreed, that unless in a case of 
urgency, admitted to be such by my- 
self, I should not be married without 
the presence of my father.’ 

4 4 4 1 recollect that condition per- 
fectly, Mademoiselle. But, I will 
ask, do you consider this a case of 
urgency ?’ 

4 4 4 Yes, I do believe it to be such.’ 

4 4 4 Well ?’ 

44 4 Well, I am ready to marry you 
in form, Monsieur, but I will not 
really be your wife till such time as I 
shall again see my father.’ 

44 The count bent his brow and bit 
his lip. 

44 4 Mademoiselle,’ said he, 4 I have 
no disposition to force your wishes. 
If you have pledged your word, I re- 
store your word to you. You are 
free, only’ — 

44 He stopped short, walked to the 
window, looked out into the street — - 

4 4 4 Only look there’ — said he. 

44 I arose, moved by that powerful 
attraction which naturally urges us 
to ascertain even our own misfortune, 
and beneath the window I observed a 
man wrapped in a mantle, endeavor- 
ing to find some mode of entering the 
house. 

44 Oh ! my God!’’ exclaimed Bussy, 
44 and do you say that it was yester 
day?” 

44 Yesterday, count ; toward nine 
o’clock in the evening.’’ 

44 Proceed,” said Bussy. 

44 At the end of a moment, another 
man came to join the first. The se- 
cond had a lantern in his hand. 


no 


DIANA OF MEKIDOR; OR, 


44 4 What think you of those two 
men ?’ asked Monsieur de Monsoreau. 

44 4 1 think,’ replied I, 4 that they 
are the duke and his confidant.’” 
Here Bussy heaved a deep groan. 

44 4 Now,’ continued the count, 4 it 
is for you to give your orders ; must 
I remain ? must I retire ?’ 

44 I hesitated for a moment. Yes ! 
in spite of my father’s letter ; 
in spite of my own promise ; in spite 
of the present danger, palpable, im- 
minent, inevitable as it seemed, I still 
doubted ; and if those two men had 
not been there’’ — - 

44 Oh ! miserable that I am !” ex- 
claimed Bussy. 44 The man in the 
cloak was I, and he who bore the lan- 
tern was Remy le-Haudouin, the 
young doctor whom you sent for to 
attend me.” 

44 It was you ?” cried Diana aston- 
ished. 

44 Yes. It was I — I ! I who, more 
convinced than ever of the reality of 
my recollections, was striving to dis- 
cover the house in which I had been 
received so hospitably ; the woman, 
or rather the angel, who appeared to 
me in the chamber into which I had 
been transported. Oh ! I had cause, 
indeed — I h,ad great cause to style 
myself miserable.” 

And Bussy stood like one crush- 
ed to the earth by the weight of that 
chance which had made him an in- 
strument whereby to compel Diana 
to give her hand to the count. 

44 Therefore,” he resumed, at the 
end of a moment’s silence, 44 there- 
fore you are his wife ?” 

44 Since last night,” replied Diana. 
And again there was a silence, unin- 
terrupted only by the painful and hur- 
ried breathing of that fair young cou- 
ple. 

44 But you,” asked Diana, sudden- 
ly, 44 how did you enter the house ? 
How came you here ?” 

Bussy showed her the 
lence. 

A key !” cried Diana. 44 Whence 
comes that key and who gave it to 
you ?” 


key in si- 


44 Did not Gertrude promise the 
prince that she would admit him that 
evening to your presence ? -The prince 
had seen Monsieur de Monsoreau ; 
nay, had seen even me, as Monsieur 
and I had seen him, and fearing some 

' o 

stratagem or ambuscade, sent me in 
his place.” 

44 And did you accept that mis- 
sion ?” she asked, reproachfully. 

44 I did, for it was the only method 
by which I could penetrate to you. 
Can you be so unjust as to blame me 
for having come to seek one of the 
greatest pleasures, one of the greatest 
woes I have encountered in all my life. ” 

44 Oh! I do blame you,” cried Di- 
ana, 44 for it had been better far, that 
you never should have seen me again, 
and never having seen, should have 
forgotten me.” 

44 No, Madame, you are mistak- 
en,” exclaimed Bussy. 44 It is God,' 
on the contrary, who conducted me 
to you, in order to penetrate, and sift 
to the bottom, the conspiracy, of 
which you are the victim. Listen. 
From the moment when I first beheld 
you, I vowed my life to your service. 
The mission, to which I then devoted 
myself, shall begin now. You have 
asked tidings of your father ?” 

44 Oh ! yes,” cried Diana, 44 for in 
truth I know not what has become of 
him.’’ 

44 Well,” said Bussy, 44 1 take it upon 
myself that you shall have them. 
Keep you only a kind recollection of 
one, who, from this moment forth, will 
live for you and by you.” 

44 But this key ?” said Diana anx- 
iously.” 

44 This key,” said Bussy, 44 I re- 
store to you ; for I would not hold it 
but from your own hand. Only I 
pledge you my honor as a gentleman, 
that never could sister have entrust- 
ed the key of her apartment to a 
more devoted or more respectful bro- 
ther.” 

44 And I trust myself to the honor 
of the brave Bussy.” 

And with the word she restored ** 
key to the young man 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


Ill 


ic Madame,’’ said Bussy, u within 
a fortnight you shall know what Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau in truth is.” 

And bowing to Diana with an ex- 
pression of the deepest respect, min- 
gled with the most passionate love at 
once, and the saddest sorrow, Bussy 
passed down the staircase out of her 
sight. 

Diana bowed her head toward the 
door, to listen to the steps of the 
young man as he retired, and that 
sound had long ceased, ere, with a 
bounding heart, and eyes drowned in 
tears, she yet listened, though in vain. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW KING HENRY THE THIRD USED 
TO TRAVEL, AND HOW MUCH TIME 
IT TOOK HIM TO GO FROM PARIS TO 
FONTAINEBLEAU. 

The day which broke some four or 
five hours later than the events which 
we have just related, saw, by the 
light of a pale sun, which hardly had 
power enough to fringe a reddish cloud 
with silver, the departure of King 
Henry for Fontainebleau, where, as we 
have said, a grand hunting party had 
been arranged for the next day but 
one. 

This departure, which, with any j 
other person, would have remained un- 
noticed, like all the other acts of the 
life of this strange prince, the events 
of whose reign I have undertaken to 
sketch, was constituted into a great 
event, by the noise and bustle which 
it created, totally disproportioned to 
its importance. 

In fact, on the quay of the Louvre 
toward eight o’clock in the morning, a 
crowd of gentlemen in waiting began 
to collect in a long mass, issuing 
from the great gate situated between 
the Tour du Coin and the Rue del ’ 
Astruce, all well mounted on good 


horses, and wrapped in furred man- 
tles. Then came an indefinite num- 
ber of pages, and, to bring up the 
rear, after a host of lackeys and run- 
ning footmen, forth marched a com- 
pany of the Swiss guard, immediately 
in front of the royal litter. 

This litter, drawn by eight mules 
richly caparisoned, deserves some- 
thing more than a mere passing 
notice. 

It was a machine forming a long 
square, supported on four wheels, 
j well furnished with cushions within, 
well hung without with curtains of 
brocade. It might be about fifteen 
feet in length, by eight in width. In 
difficult places, or in roads too steep 
and mountainous, for the eight mules 
were substituted an infinite number 
of oxen, whose slow but obstinate 
strength added nothing, it is true, to 
the spe^d of the royal progress, but 
at least gave assurance, that they 
should reach their journey’s end, if 
not one, then two or three hours 
later than the appointed time. 

This clumsy machine contained, on 
the present occasion, King Henry the 
Third and his whole court, the Queen 
alone excepted, Louise de Vaude- 
ment, who, to speak truly, played so 
insignificant a part in the court of 
her royal husband that, unless in the 
pilgrimages or processions, it is hardly 
worth the while to mention her. 

Let us therefore omit the poor 
Queen, and relate of whom the tra- 
j veiling court of Henry the Third was 
composed. 

It consisted then, first, of King 
Henry, of his physician Miron, of his 
chaplain, whose name has not been 
handed down to our times, of our old 
acquaintance Chicot, his fool, and of 
five or six minions who happened to 
be in favor. These were at this mo- 
ment, Quelus, Schomberg, D’Eper- 
non, D’O, and Maugiron ; a brace of 
tall greyhounds who thrust their long 
snake-like heads to and fro among 
the party, some of whom were stand- 
ing up, some sitting, some kneeling, 
some lying at length, some resting on 


112 


DIANA OF MERIDORj OR, 


their elbows, in order to yawn at 
their leisure ; and, to complete the 
picture, a basket full of little Eng- 
lish spaniels, which the King carried 
sometimes on his knees, sometimes 
suspended from his neck by ribands 
or a chain. 

From time to time, some of the 
courtiers would draw out of a sort of 
niche, made for the purpose, a bitch, 
whose teats were distended with milk, 
that she might suckle this basket-full 
of little dogs, on which the two tall 
greyhounds looked down compassion- 
ately, as they rubbed their long 
pointed muzzles against the King’s 
death’s-head rosary, too sure of his 
favor, apparently, even to think it 
worth the while to be jealous. 

From the roof of the litter, there 
hung a cage of gilded brass-wire-' 
work, filled with the most beautiful 
turtle-doves in the world — that is to 
say, turtle-doves with plumage as 
white as snow, and with double black 
rings about their necks. 

When, by chance, any woman was 
admitted to the royal litter, the me- 
nagerie was augmented by several 
monkeys of the kind called the ouisti- 
tes, or sapajous, the monkey being at 
this time one of the animals in es- 
pecial favor with the fashionable 
world about the court of Valois. 

A Notre Dame de Chartres, carved 
in marble by Goujon for King Henry 
the Second, stood erect in the middle 
of the litter, within a gilded niche, 
appearing to turn on her divine son, 
eyes shocked and astonished by all 
that they beheld around them. 

The King was seated in the back 
of the litter immediately below the 
niche of Notre Dame ; at his feet sat 
Quelus and Maugiron plaiting rib- 
ands, which was one of the occu- 
pations of young men at that pe- 
riod, some of whom had succeeded in 
making, by means of a combination 
previously unknown, and which has 
not been discovered since that time, 
plaits of twelve strands. Maugiron, 
sitting in a corner, was making a 
mantle for his armorial bearings, 


with a new device which he fancied 
he had discovered, but which in truth 
he had only re-discovered ; in another 
angle the chaplain and the doctor 
were in conversation ; D’O and D’Ep 
ernon were looking out of the win- 
dows, and having got up too early in 
the morning, were yawning as wide 
as the greyhounds. And, to con- 
clude, Chicot, seated in one of the 
doors, with his legs hanging out of the 
machine, so that at a moment’s no- 
tice he was always ready to get out or 
in, according to his humor, was singing 
canticles, reciting pasquinades, mak- 
ing anagrams, according to the rage 
of the time, and finding in the name 
of every courtier, some personality or 
other, infinitely disagreeable to him on 
whose individuality it thus trenched, 
couched either in French or in Latin. 

As the litter reached the Place du 
Chatelet, Chicot began to set up a 
canticle to a psalm tune. 

The chaplain, who was conversing, 
as we have said, with Miron, turned 
about, frowning savagely. 

u Chicot, my friend,” said his Ma- 
jesty, u take care what you are doing ; 
flay my minions alive, tear my ma- 
jesty to pieces, say whatever you 
please about Divine Providence — for 
Divine Providence is very merciful— 
but do not get into any scrape wit., 
the church. 5 ’ 

“ Thanks for your advice, my son, 
said Chicot. 

u I did not see our worthy chaplain 
yonder, who is conversing with the 
doctor about the last dead-one he 
sent him to stick under ground, and 
complaining that he was the third in 
one day, and always at meal-time, 
which bored him sadly. No psalm- 
tunes ; you speak golden counsels 
They are too old. I will sing you a 
new song, quite new.” 

u To what air?” asked the Kin<r. 
u Always to the old one,” said Chi- 
cot, and he set up a stave at the top 
of his voice — 

“ Our King a hundred millions owe*? — 
u I owe more than that,” said the 


/ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


iu 


King. 4C Thy song-maker is ill in- 
formed, my Chicot.” 

Chicot resumed his stave without a 
pause, or an alteration in the tune. 

“ Two hundred millions Henry owes, 

And new inventions must be found, 

And all poor folks must be newly ground, 
To buy Messires the Minions’ clothes 
With duties, taxes, tributes new 
Laid on the many for the few, 

From the poor man’s belly torn 
On the Minions’ backs to be worn. 
Wretched they their breath who draw 
Under these foul harpies’ claw, 

Gorging their insatiate maw.” 

u Well !” said Quelus plaiting his 
silk the while, u thou hast a fine 
voice, Chicot. The second couplet, 
my friend.” 

u Look here, Valois,” said Chicot, 
without answering him. u Do not 
allow thy friends to call me their 
friend. That humiliates me.” 

u Speak in verse, Chicot,” replied 
the King. u Thy prose is good for 
nothing.” 

u Be it so,” said Chicot, and he re- 
sumed his song as follows : 

“ Soft their garb and soft their gait, 

Not a woman such would use, 

Or her character she’d lose, 

So lascivious is their state. 

Their necks they cannot turn about 
For their ruffs, so stiff and stout. 

Wheaten starch it is not nice 
Enough to smooth their snowy cuffs, 

And now to stiffen frills and ruffs, 

They needs must make their starch of rice.” 

u Bravo !” said the King. u It 
was thou, was it not, D’O, who invent- 
ed rice starch ?” 

u Not so, Sire,” said Chicot, u it 
was Monsieur de Saint Megrin, who 
died last year, under Monsieur de 
Mayenne’s baton. What the devil ! 
don’t take that credit away from the 
poor dead-one. He has only that 
starch, and what he did to Monsieur 
de Guise, on which to depend for 
reaching posterity. Take away his 
starch, and he will stick half way.” 
And without paying any attention 
to the King’s face, which had grown 
very dark at this recollection, Chicot 
went on singing; 


“ Their locks by compass cicrped and 
shorn — ” 

u We are still speaking of the 
minions, be it well understood,” said 
Chicot — 

u Yes, yes, go on !” said Schom- 
berg. 

* 

“ Their locks by compass cropped and 
shorn, 

Unequally around are worn. 

Before in front the ear you’ll find 
They’re long, but very short behind.” 

u Thy song is out of date already,” 
said D’Epernon. 

“ Out of date ! It was made yes- 
terday.” 

And D’Epernon took off his little 
velvet tocque, to show Chicot that his 
front hair was clipped as closely as 
the back hair. 

“ Oh ! what a shocking bad head !” 
shrieked Chicot. 

u And without pausing a moment 
he took up his chant again : 

“ Their hair, by nature straight and limp, 

Is frizzed with gum as stiff as gimp, 

Is twisted, tortured, turned, and twined, 
And on their empty pates behind, 

To make them look more hideous yet, 

A jaunty little cap is set.” 

u We will skip the fourth stanza,” 
said Chicot, u it is too immoral,” and 
then he resumed : 

“ Oh ! think you that our French of old, 

Of whom such doughty deeds are told, 
Whose valiant arms were wreathed with 
glory, 

Whose wars survive in deathless story, 
Whose names with endless honor crowned, 
Are spread the universe around — 

Think you, they changed their glorious 
cuffs, 

In shirts bestarched and stiffened ruffs; 
And won their world-renowned places, 

In frizzled periwigs, and painted faces I” 

u Bravo !” said Henry, u and if my 
brother were here, he would be very 
grateful to thee, Chicot.” 

u Whom do you call your brother, 
my son ?” asked Chicot. u Is it by 
chance, Joseph Foulon, Abbot of 
Saint Genevieve, in whose convent it. 
is said that you are going to take the 
< vows ?” 


114 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Not so,” said Henry, who always 
lent himself to all Chicot’s jests. U I 
speak of my brother Francis.” 

u Ah ! yes. Thou art right. That 
tme is not thy brother in God, but 
thy brother in the Devil. Good ! 
good ! Thou speakest of FraAcis, 
the son of France by the grace of 
God, Duke of Brabant, of Lauthier, 
of Luxemburg, of Gueldres, of Alen- 
£on, of Anjou, of Touraine, and of 
Berry, of Evraux, and of Chateau- 
Thierry, Count of Flanders, of Hol- 
land, of Zealand, of Zutphen, of 
Maine, of Perche, of Mantes, Meulan 
and Beaufort, Marquis of the Hoty 
Empire, Lord of Friseland and Ma- 
lines, defender of the liberty of Bel- 
gium, for whom nature made one 
nose, for whom the small-pox made 
two, and on whom I, Chicot, made 
this quatrain.” 

“ Messieurs, I pray you, not astonished be, 

If on Duke Francis noses twain you see ; 
For where, by right, shall noses twain have 
place, 

Unless it be upon a double face.” 

The minions burst into a violent fit 
of laughter, for the Duke d’ Anjou 
was their personal enemy, and the 
epigram against the prince caused 
them, for the moment, to forget the 
pasquinade which Chicot had just 
sung against themselves. 

As to the King, up to this moment, 
he had received only a few chance 
shot from this rolling fire. He laugh- 
ed, therefore, louder than anybody, 
sparing no one, giving sugar and pas- 
try to his dogs, striking his brother 
and his friends with his tongue, both 
alike. 

Suddenly, Chicot cried out : 
u Gh ! it is not politic, Henry. It 
is audacious and imprudent!” 
u What is ?” asked the King. 
u No ! on the faith of Chicot, you 
should not confess such things — fie ! 
fie !” 

“ What things ?” asked Henry, in 
astonishment. 

u The things which you say of your- 
self, as often as you sign your name. 
Ah ! Henriquet, my son !” 


u Look to yourself, Sire !” said 
Quelus, who suspected some malice 
to be concealed under Chicot’s doubly 
sweet and placid manner. 

<c What the devil do you mean, 
fool ?” asked the King. 

u How do you sign your name, lei 
us hear that ?” 

u Pardieu ! — I sign — I sign — Henri 
de Valois.” 

u Good ! Observe, Messieurs, ’’said 
Chicot, u what I will make him say of 
himself. Let us see, is there not a V 
in these thirteen letters ?” 

u Certainly, Valois begins with V.” 
u Take your tablets, then, Messire 
Chaplain, for here is the true name 
under which you must hereafter ad- 
dress the King. Henri de Valois is 
merely an anagram.” 

“ What ?” 

u Yes, merely an anagram. I will 
tell you the real name of his Majesty 
actually reigning. We say, for in- 
stance, in Henri de Valois there is a 
V, therefore, put down V on your 
tablets.” 

“ It is done,” said Epernon. 
t u Is there not also an I ?” 
u Certainlv, it is the last letter of 
the word Henri.” 

“ Oh ! the malice of men, who 
have thus separated letters intended 
to stand together. Put down an i 
beside the V. Good, is it done ?” 
u It is,” said Epernon. 

“Now let us search to see if we 
cannot find an l ; there is one, is 
there not? Now an a ; there is one 
again ; another i ; we have another ; 
and to conclude an n. Good, do you 
know how to read, Nogaret ?” 

“ I confess it to my shame !” said 
D ’Epernon. 

“ What now, scoundrel ? do you 
really, by any chance, imagine you 
are sufficiently noble to be ignorant ?” 
“ Scamp !” said D ’Epernon, lift- 
ing his sarbacand against Chicot. 

“ Strike me, but spell f” said 
Chicot. 

D ’Epernon laughed and then spel 
“ V-i vi, 1-a-i-n Tain, vilain /” 

“ Well spelt,” said Chicot. “ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


115 * 


see, Henry, how this begins. Here, 
for instance, is your right baptismal 
name already. I hope that you will 
give me a pension like that which 
our brother, Charles the Ninth, gave 
to Mons. Amyot, when I shall have 
re-discovered your true family name.” 
u You will get yourself batoned, 
Chicot,” said the King. 

u Where do folk cut the canes 
with which they baton gentlemen, 
my son ? Do they grow in Poland ? 
tell me that.” 

u It seems to me, nevertheless, that 
Mons. de Mayenne had no difficulty 
in getting one for thee, my poor Chi- 
cot,” said Quelus, u the day he 
caught thee with his mistress.” 

u Therefore, he and I have an ac- 
count to settle one of these days. 
Be not distressed, Mons. Cupido, it 
is carried to his debit.” 

And Chicot placed his finger on his 
forehead, which proves that, even in 
those days, the head was admitted to 
be the seat of memory. 

u L0ok you, Quelus,” said D’Eper- 
non, u it is thanks to thee that we 
shall have the family name escape us.” 
“ Fear nothing,” said Chicot, u I 
hold fast, with regard to Mons. de 
Guise, I would say, by the horns ; 
but, as relates to thee, Henry, by the 
ears will content me.” 

“ Come, the name, the name !” 
cried all the young men at once. 

u We have among the letters which 
are left to us, first of all a great H ; 
take the H, Nogaret.” 

D’Epernon obeyed. 
u Then an e, then an r, then, after 
that, in the Valois, an o ; then, as 
you separate the name from the Chris- 
tian name, by what the grammarians 
call a particle, I put my hand upon a 
d and an e, which will make for us, 
together with the s , which terminates 
the family name — which will make 
for us — spell D’Epernon — H, e,- 

r, o, d, e, s.” 

u H erodes,” said D’Epernon. 
“Vilain Herodes !” exclaimed 
the King. 

“ Precisely,” said Chicot, u and 


that is the name that you sign every 
day, my son. Oh ! oh !” and Chicot 
cast himself backward with all the 
manifestations of awe-stricken and 
offended modesty. 

“ Mons. Chicot,” said Henry, 
u you are getting out of all bounds.” 
u I !” said Chicot, u I only say 
that which is. But that is just like 
kings. Tell them the truth and they 
grow angry.” 

u Here is a fine genealogy,” said 
the King. 

u Do not deny it, my son,” said 
Chicot, u ventre de biche f It is a good 
name for a King who, two or three - 
times a month, finds it necessary to 
apply to the Jews.” 

u It is said,” cried the King, 
u that such villains as this should not 
have the last word. Messieurs, 
peace all of you, so that no one may 
give him a chance of replying.” 

There was immediately a profound 
silence, and Chicot himself, who had 
suddenly become very attentive to the 
road which they were travelling, did 
not appear disposed to break the 
silence, which had already lasted 
several minutes, when just beyond 
the Place Maubert, at the corner of 
the Rue des Noyers, Chicot was seen 
to dart out of the litter, rush through 
the guards, and go fall upon his 
knees at the angle of a tolerably good 
looking house which thrust forward 
into the street a balcony of carved 
wood, supported on an entablature of 
small painted beams. 

u Ho, Pagan,” cried the King. 
u If thou wilt kneel at all, at least go 
and kneel before the cross which 
stands in the middle of the Rue Sainte- 
Genevieve, and not before that house. 
Does it contain a church, I pray you, 
or some altar for procession halts ?” 
But Chicot made no answer — he 
had cast himself on both his knees 
upon the pavement, and was repeating 
in a loud voice this prayer, not one 
word of which escaped the King, who 
was listening with all his ears. 

u Good Lord ! just Lord, here, I 
recognize it well, and during my 


A 


116 DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


whole life I shall recognize it, here is | 
the house in which Chicot suffered 
such cruel martyrdom, if not for thee, 
good Lord, at least for one of thy 
creatures. Chicot has never requested 
that any misfortune should befall 
Monsieur de Mayenne, the author of 
his punishment, or Master Nicolas 
David, the instrument of his martyr- 
dom. No, O Lord, no. Chicot 
knows how to await his time, for 
Chicot is patient, although his pa- 
tience will not last for ever, and here 
are six little years, one of which is 
leap year, in which Chicot has been 
counting up the interest on the small 
account open between himself and 
Messieurs de Mayenne and Nicolas 
David ; now, at ten per cent., which is 
the legal interest, since it is the interest 
at which the King borrows, in seven 
years is the capital doubled. Bring 
it about, good Lord, just Lord, that 
Chicot’s patience may last one year 
longer, in order that the fifty blows 
with stirrup-leathers which Chicot 
received in that house by the order 
of that assassin of a prince of Lorrain, 
and by the hand of that cut-throat 
of a Norman advocate, which blows 
drew from the body of Chicot a pint 
of blood, may amount to a hundred 
blows with stirrup-leathers, and two 
pints of blood to each of them, in 
such sort that neither Monsieur de 
Mayenne, fat as he is, nor Monsieur 
Nicolas David, long as he is, may have 
enough flesh or blood to pay their 
debt to Chicot, and that they may be 
reduced to a bankruptcy of fifteen or 
twenty per cent., by expiring under 
the eightieth, or eighty-fifth lash. 

u In the name of the — &c. &c. &c. 
Amen, Amen ; so be it.” 

“ Amen,” replied the King. 

Chicot kissed the earth, and to the 
excessive wonder of all the spectators, 
who knew not what to make of so 
strange a scene, returned to take his 
place in the royal litter. 

u Ah ha !” said the King, to whom 
his rank, stripped as he had been of so 
many of his privileges which, during 
the last years he had surrendered to 


others, gave him at least the privilege 
of being the first informed. u Ah ha 1 
Master Chicot, wherefore this long 
and singular litany ; wherefore this 
beating of the heart ; wherefore, in a 
word, all these mummeries before a 
house of so profane an exterior ?” 
u Sire,” replied Quelus, u I would 
like to lay a wager, Chicot pro- 
nounced, as your Majesty has heard, 
the name of the Duke de Mayenne 
in his prayer ; Sire, I will bet that 
this house has some connection with 
the bastinadoing of which we spoke 
just now.” 

u Bet, Seigneur Jacques de Levis, 
Count de Quelus,” said Chicot, u bet, 
and you will win.” 

u Is it there ?” said the King. 
u Precisely, Sire,” answered Chi- 
cot. u In that house Chicot had a 
mistress, a fair and charming crea- 
ture, on my honor. One night when 
he went to see her, a certain jealous 
prince caused the house to be sur- 
rounded, caused Chicot to be seized, 
and batoned so roughly, that Chicot- 
jumped out of the window, or rather, 
being short of the time to open it, 
jumped over the balcony in the street. 
Now as it is a miracle that Chicot 
was not killed, every time when Chi- 
cot passes by that house, he kneels 
known, prays, and thanks the Lord 
in his prayer for having got him out 
of so bad a scrape.” 

u Ah ! poor Chicot ! and you were 
condemning, too, for it. It seems to 
me, in truth, that he is enacting a 
very Christian part in all this.” 
u Thou wert soundly beaten then, 
my poor Chicot, wert thou ?” 

u Oh ! wonderfully, Sire. But 
not as badly as I could wish to have 
been.” 

How so ?” 

u No, in truth, I should like well 
to have received a pass or two with 
swords.” 

u For thy sins ?” 

u No, for those of Monsieur de 
Mayenne.” 

u Ah ! I comprehend, it is thy m- 
i tettion then to render unto Caesar — ” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


117 


u Unto Caesar — not so. Do not 
let us confound matters, Sire. Cae- 
sar is the great General, is the valiant 
warrior, is the elder brother, is he 
who desires to be King of France. 
No, no, he keeps his accounts with 
Henry of Valois, and it is thou whom 
that account regards, my son. Pay 
thy debts, Henry, I will pay mine 
own.” 

Henry did not like that any per- 
son should talk to him of his cousin 
of Guise. Therefore the apostrophe 
of Chicot rendered him serious, so 
that they came to the Bicetre, before 
the interrupted conversation had re- 
sumed its course. 

Three hours had been consumed in 
passing from the Louvre to the Bice- 
tre ; so that the Optimists of the 
party calculated on reaching Fon- 
tainebleau, on the evening of the next 
day ; while the Pessimists offered to 
bet, that it would be nearer noon, 
on the day after. Chicot insisted 
that they should never get there at all. 

Once out of Paris, however, the pro- 
cession appeared to move more at its 
ease. The morning was very fine. 
The wind blew less violently, the sun 
had at length succeeded in piercing 
his veil of clouds, and one would 
have said, that it was one of those 
fine October days, in which, to the 
sound of falling leaves, those who 
walk in the country, bury their glan- 
ces with something of regret, in the 
blue mystery of the murmuring woods. 

It was three o’clock in the after- 
noon, when the train reached the first 
walls of the park of Juvisy. From 
this point, the bridge built over the 
Orge was in full view, and the grand 
hostelry of the court of France, 
which committed to the sharp evening 
air the perfumes of its spits, and the 
merry sounds of its kitchen hearth. 

Chicot’s nose caught these emana- 
tions as they flew. He leaned out 
of the litter, and saw from afar, at 
the door of the hostelry, several men, 
wrapped in their cloaks. In the midst 
of these men was a short stout per- 
son, whose face was concealed entire- 


ly by the broad brim of his large 
slouched hat. 

These men turned rapidly back into 
the hostelry, as they saw the arrival 
of the royal train. 

But the short fat man had not 
entered so quickly, but that his ap- 
pearance had caught Chicot’s eye, 
so that at the very moment in 
which the stout man passed into the 
door, our Gascon jumped down from 
the royal litter, and going up to the 
page who led his horse by the bridle, 
took it from him, and then concealing 
himself in the corner of the nearest 
wall, with some aid from the first 
shades of evening, which were falling, 
suffered the train to pass onward, on 
its road toward Essonnes, where the 
King reckoned on passing the night. 

Then, when the last horseman had 
disappeared, when the distant sound 
of the wheels of the litter had been 
lost in empty space, he issued from 
his hiding place, made a circuit 
round the chateau, and came up to 
the door of the hostelry, as if he 
were just arriving from Fontainebleau. 
As he came up to the window, Chicot 
cast a rapid glance through the panes, 
and saw with pleasure, that all the 
men whom he had remarked were 
there yet, and among them, the short 
stout person to whom he had appeared 
to do the honor of giving his parti- 
cular attention. Only, as Chicot 
seemed to have his own private rea- 
sons for desiring to remain unrecog- 
nized by that person, instead of 
entering the apartment in which he 
stood, he caused a bottle of wine to 
be set before him in the opposite 
room, where he placed himself in such 
a position, that no one could enter or 
quit that apartment, without being 
seen by himself. 

From that chamber, in which he 
had prudently placed himself so as 
to be altogether in the shadow, he 
could cast his eye into the other so far 
even, as to the angle of a large chimney 
corner. In that angle, seated on a 
settle, sat the short stout man we 
have mentioned, who, not imagin- 


118 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ing that he ran any risk of being ex- 
amined or recognized, was talking in 
the full glare of the hearth, rendered 
yet more brilliant by an armful of 
vine twigs, which had just been cast on 
it, redoubling its heat and lustre. 

u I was not mistaken,” said Chi- 
cot to himself, “ and when I put my 
prayer to the house at the corner of 
the Rue des Royers, one would say 
that I scented the return of this man. 
But v^hy does he come thus secretly 
to the capital of our friend Herodes ? 
Why does he hide himself as he 
passes by ? Ah ! Pilate ! Pilate ! is 
it possible, by any chance, that the 
good Lord will not grant me the year 
which I asked of him, and will force 
me to have a settlement more speedi- 
ly than I desired it ?” 

Ere long, Chicot perceived to his 
great joy, that not only could he see 
all that was passing in the other room, 
from the place in which he sat, but by 
one of those accidents of acoustics 
which are sometimes produced so ca- 
priciously in old buildings, he could 
bear much that was said. 

This once observed, it is needless to 
add, that he began to listen as care- 
fully as he was watching. 

u Messieurs,” said the stout short 
man to his companions, u I think that 
it is time to set out, the last lackey 
of the royal train has passed by long 
ago, and I think that, at this hour, 
the roads will be safe.” 

u Perfectly safe, Monseigneur,” 
replied a voice which made Chicot 
shudder, and which issued from a 
body to which Chicot had as yet paid 
no attention, absorbed as he was in 
contemplation of the principal person. 

The individual to whom the body 
belonged wdience that voice issued, 
was as long as that of him, whom he 
called Monseigneur, was short, as 
pale as he was ruddy, as obsequious 
ag he was arrogant. 

u Ah ! Master Nicholas,” said Chi- 
cot, laughing noiselessly, u Tu quoque , 
that is good. We shall have very bad 
luck this time, if we separate without 
saying two words to one another.” 


And Chicot emptied his glass, and 
paid his reckoning to the host, in or- 
der to be able to set out at a moment’s 
notice. 

The precaution was not ill taken, for 
the seven persons, who had attracted 
Chicot’s attention, now paid in their 
turn, or rather the short stout person 
paid for them, and each one having 
received his horse from the hands of a 
groom or lackey, and having settled 
himself in his saddle, the little troop 
took the road toward Paris, and was 
soon lost in the fogs of evening. 

u Good !” said Chicot, u he is go- 
ing to Paris. I will return thither 
then. ” 

And mounting his horse in turn, 
Chicot followed them at a distance, 
taking care never to lose sight of 
their grey mantles, or if, from precau- 
tion, he fell back so as to lose them for 
a few moments, never retiring beyond 
ear-shot of the neighing and tram- 

O O 

pling of their horses. 

All the cavalcade left the' road to 
Fromenteau, and took across the coun- 
try so as to strike Choisy. Then 
crossing the Seine by a bridge at Cha- 
renton, they entered by the Porte 
Saint-Antoine, in order to lose them- 
selves like a swarm of bees in the 
Hotel de Guise, which seemed only 
to be awaiting their arrival, in order 
to close its doors on them. 

u Good,” said Chicot, placing him- 
self in ambush at the corner of the 
Rue des Quartre-Fils, u there is not 
only some Mayenne, but some Guise, 
under all this. It was only curious at 
first, it is beginning to be interesting 
now. I will wait.” 

And Chicot did wait, in fact, a 
good hour, although cold and hunger 
were beginning to pinch him with 
their sharp teeth. At last the door 
opened ; but in lieu of seven cavaliers 
wrapt in their mantles, it was seven 
monksof Saint Genevieve, wrapped in 
their cowls and shaking immense ro- 
saries, who issued from the door. 

u Oh ! ho !” said Chicot* u what 
an unexpected winding up of a plot ! 
So the Hotel de Guise is so embalm- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 

<1 


119 


eel in tlie odor of sanctity, that rakes 
themselves are converted into lambs 
of the Lord, merely by crossing the 
threshold. It grows more and more 
interesting.” 

And Chicot followed the monks as 
he had followed the cavaliers, not 
doubting in the least that the frocks 
covered the same bodies which had 
been covered by the mantles. 

The monks passed the Seine by the 
Pont Notre-Dame, crossed the Cite, 
passed the Petit-Point, went along the 
Place Maubert, and thence up the 
Rue Sainte-Genevieve. 

u Holloa !” said Chicot, after 
taking off his hat to the house in the 
Rue des Noyers, to which he had 
put up his prayer in the morning, u I 
wonder, whether by chance we are 
going back to F ontainebleau ? In that 
event, I ought to have made a shorter 
cut thither. But no, I am mistaken, 
we are not going so far.” 

In fact, the monks had all halted 
before the door of the Abbey of Saint- 
Genevieve, and passed under its sha- 
dowy porch, within the gloom of 
which another monk of the same 
order might be seen, examining atten- 
tively the hands of those who enter- 
ed. 

u Pardieu !” thought Chicot, u it 
seems that this evening, in order to 
gain admission to the abbey, one must 
needs have clean hands. Decidedly 
some fun is in the wind.” 

This reflection finished, Chicot, 
who was now sufficiently embarrass- 
ed as to the means he must take of 
keeping the persons whom he had 
been following in sight, began to look 
about him, and saw to his great sur- 
prise, that all the streets converg- 
ing to the abbey were filled with cowls, 
some walking singly, some two and 
two, but all hastening toward the 
abbey. 

Aha!” said Chicot, u a chapter 
general then is to be held at the ab- 
bey to-night, and all the monks of 
Saint-Genevieve in France are con- 
voked. Upon the word of a gentle- 
man, this is the very first time I ever 


felt a desire to be present at a chap- 
ter, but I confess I do wish it now. 

And the monks passed into the 
porch, showed their hands, or some 
token which they held in their hands, 
and were admitted. 

u I would go in with them, surely,” 
said Chicot to himself, u but two es- 
sential things are wanting to me. First, 
the respectable garment which enve- 
lopes them, seeing that hitherto I have 
seen no laymen among all their holy 
persons ; and secondly, that thing 
which they are showing to the porter 
at the door. Ah ! brother Gorenflot, 
brother Gorenflot, if only I had you 
under my hand, my worthy friend” — 

This exclamation was wrested, as it 
were, from Chicot, by the recollection 
of one of the most venerable monks 
of Saint-Genevieve, one of his habit- 
ual boon companions, whenever Chi- 
cot did not happen to dine at the 
Lawn ; the same, in a word, with whom 
on the day of the penitentiary pro- 
cession our Gascon had stopped at the 
drinking-shop by the Porte Montmar- 
tre, and had eaten a teal and drunk 
spiced wine. 

And the monks continued to flow in 
with the same rapidity, .so that you 
would have believed that half the 
population of Paris had taken the 
frock, and the brother porter, never 
weary, examined them with as much 
attention, these as those. 

u Let us see! let us see!” said 
Chicot to himself, u there is decid- 
edly something extraordinary going 
on this evening. I must be curious 
to the end of it. It is half past 
seven o’clock, the collection of alms 
is over. I shall find brother Goren- 
flot, I fancy, at the Horn of Abun- 
dance ; it is about his usual supper- 
time. 

Chicot left the legions of monks to 

O 

make what evolutions they would be- 
fore the abbey gates, and to dive into 
the deep portals, and putting his 
horse to the gallop, reached the 
Grande Rue Saint-Jacques, where, 
nearly opposite to the cloister of 
Saint-Benedict, stood, flourishing, and 


ISO 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR 


frequented by scholars chiefly, and 
monkish professors, the hostelry of the 
Horn of Abundance. 

Chicot was well known in the house, 
not as one of the regular customers 
of the place, but as one of those mys- 
terious guests, who came from time to 
time, and left a gold crown and a portion 
of their wits in the establishment of 
Master Claude Bonhomet. Thus was 
the dispenser of the good things of 
Ceres and Bacchus named, those good 
things, which the famous horn which 
was the sign of this hostelry, used to 
pour out in a never ending flow. 


CHAPTER V. 

f 

IN WHICH THE READER WILL HAVE 
THE PLEASURE TO MAKE ACQUAINT- 
ANCE WITH BROTHER GORENFLOT, 
WHOM HE HAS ALREADY HEARD 
SPOKEN OF TWICE IN THE COURSE OF 
THE HISTORY. 

The fine day had been succeeded by 
a fine night. Only as the day had 
been cold, the evening was colder yet. 
The vapor of their breath might be 
seen gathered like a thin mist be- 
neath the broad rimmed hats of the 
passing burghers, and reddened by 
the glimmer of their lanterns. The 
steps of the passengers could be heard 
distinctly on the hard frozen soil, 
and the sonorous hum extracted by 
cold and repercussion from elastic 
surfaces, as a physician of our days 
would express himself. In one word, 
it was one of those delightful spring 
frosts which cause men to find a dou- 
ble charm in the beautiful rose-color- 
ed li^ht of an inn window. 

Chicot walked straight into the din- 
ing-room, cast his eye into all the 
corners and recesses, and finding no- 
thing in any of them which resembled 
him of whom he was in search, walk- 
ed familiarly into the kitchen. 

The master of the establishment 
was in the middle of the perusal of a 
pious book, while a whole ocean of 


fish, fried in oil, contained in an im- 
mense caldron simmering over a stove, 
was on the point of attaining to that 
degree of heat necessary for the intro- 
duction of several whitings, all ready- 
covered with flour, into the fry-pan. 
At the noise which Chicot made as he 
entered, Master Bonhomet raised hia 
head. 

u Ah ! is it you, my gentleman ?” 
said he, closing his book ; u good eve 
ning and a good appetite.” 

u Thank you for the two-fold wish, 
although one half of it will be as 
much to your profit as to my own. 
But that will depend.” 

u How do you mean, that will de- 
pend ?” 

u Yes. You know that I cannot 
endure to eat alone.” 

u If it should be necessary, Mon- 
sieur,” said Bonhomet, raising his 
pistachio-colored bonnet, u I will sup 
with you myself.” 

u Thanks, my dear host, although 
I know you to be an excellent boon 
companion.. But I am in search of 
some one in particular.” 

u Brother Gorenflot, perhaps ?” 
asked Bonhomet. 

u Exactly,” replied Chicot, u has 
he begun his supper ?” 

u Not yet. But make haste, or 
you will be too late.” 
u I must make haste ?” 
u Yes, for in five minutes he will 
have finished.” 

u Brother Gorenflot has not begun 
his supper ; and he will have done in 
five minutes, do you say ?” And 
Chicot shook his head, a sign which 
in all the countries of the old world 
passes for a token of incredulity. 

u Monsieur,” said Master Claude 
“ to-day is Wednesday, and the be 
ginning of Lent.” 

u Well, what of that ?” said Chicot, 
with an air that proved but little in 
favor of the religious qualities of G j - 
renflot , c What of that r” 

u Ah ! by’r lady !” said Claude, 
with an air which evidently signified 
— I understand no more about it than 
you, but so it is. 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AIL 


121 


u Decidedly,” replied Chicot, 

* 4 there is something out of order in 
the whole sublunary machine ; five 
minutes for Gorenflot’s supper. I am 
destined to see some miraculous 
things to-day.” 

And with the air of a traveller, 
who puts his foot on an unknown 
shore, Chicot took a few steps to- 
ward a private closet, the glass door 
of which, closed by a curtain of red 
and white checkered woollen-stuff, he 
pushed open, and at the end of which 
he discovered, by the light of a very 
smoky candle, the worthy monk, turn- 
ing carelessly over and over on his 
plate, a portion of plain boiled spi- 
nach, which he had vainly endeavored 
to render more palatable by the in- 
troduction of a fragment of cheese of 
Surenes, into the vegetable prepara- 
tion. 

While the worthy brother was pre- 
paring this mixture with an indignant 
grimace, which seemed to signify that 
he had no great confidence in the me- 
lancholy combination, we shall en- 
deavor 'to present him to our readers 
in a form which shall compensate to 
them for having been so long depriv- 
ed of the pleasure of his acquaint- 
ance. 

Brother Gorenflot might be thirty- 
eight years old, and five feet high by 
the royal measure. This stature, 
which was, it must be admitted, some- 
what dwarfish, was perhaps compen- 
sated, according to the ideas of the 
reverend brother, by the admirable 
harmony of his proportions ; for, as 
much as he lost in height, he gained 
in circumference, counting nearly 
three feet in diameter from shoulder 
to shoulder, which is equivalent, as 
everybody knows, to nine feet in cir- 
cumference. 

To the centre of his herculean 
shoulders, a huge neck, furrowed 
with muscles as thick as a man’s 
thumb and as prominent as cords, 
was riveted. Unluckily, that neck 
itself was in proportion to the rest of 
his frame, that is to say, it was short 
and thick, which seemed to indicate 


the likelihood of apoplexy, as the ter- 
mination of the first violent emotion 
that Brother Gorenflot should experi- 
ence. But having the consciousness 
of that defect, and of the danger with 
which it seemed to threaten him, Bro- 
ther Gorenflot never allowed himself 
to be annoyed by it. It was even, 
we ought to say, very rare to see him 
affected so visibly as he was at the 
hour in which Chicot entered the 
closet. 

u Well, my friend, what are yon 
doing there ?” cried our Gascon, look- 
ing alternately at the herbs, at Go- 
renflot, at the unsnuffed candle, and 
at a certain hanap , filled to the brim 
with water scarcely tinged by a few 
drops of wine. 

u You see, my brother, I am sup- 
ping,” answered Gorenflot, in a voice 
as powerful and vibratory as the clock 
of his own abbey. 

u Do you call that supper, you, 
Gorenflot ? Herbs, cheese ? Come, 
come,” cried Chicot. 

u We are in one of the first Wed- 
nesdays in Lent ; let us work out our 
own salvation, my brother,” replied 
Gorenflot, snuffling, and raising his 
hands devoutly to heaven. 

Chicot stood astounded. His ex- 
pression indicated that he had al- 
ready once or twice seen Gorenflot 
glorifying the holy time of Lent, up- 
on which they were just entering, in 
a very different manner from the pre- 
sent. 

u Our salvation?” he repeated. 
u And what the devil have herbs and 
water got to do with our soul’s salva- 
tion?” 

“ On Friday flesh thou shalt not eat, 

Nor yet on Wednesday either” — 

said Gorenflot. 

u But at what hour did you break- 
fast ?” 

u I did not breakfast, my brother,” 
said the monk, snuffling more and 
more. 

u Ah ! if the question turns on 
snuffling,” said Chicot, “ I am as 
ready to try the combat as all the 


122 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR. 


monks of Saint-Genevieve in the 
world. So if you have not breakfast- 
ed,” said Chicot, suiting the action 
to the word by snuffling and whining 
immoderately, u what have you 
done, my brother ?” • 

44 1 have composed a discourse,” 
said Gorenflot, tossing his head 
proudly. 

44 Ah ! bah ! A discourse ; and for 
what ?” 

44 To pronounce to-night at the 
abbey.” 

4 ^Come,” thought Chicot to him- 
self, 44 a discourse to-night ; that is 
droll again.” 

44 And even now,” added Gorenflot, 
raising to his mouth a first fork full 
of spinach and cheese, 44 I must be 
thinking of returning home, for my 
audience will be perhaps growing im- 
patient.” 

Chicot thought of the indefinite 
number of monks whom he had seen 
entering the abbey, and reflecting that 
Monsieur de Mayenne, according to 
all probability, was one of the number 
of those monks, he began to ask him- 
self how Gorenflot, who up to that day 
had been appreciated for any quality 
rather than his eloquence, should 
have been selected by his superior, 
Joseph Foulon, at this time abbot of 
Saint-Genevieve, to preach before the 
prince of the house of Lorrain, and so 
numerous an assemblage. 

(ft o 

u *Bah !” said he, 44 and at what 
o’clock do you preach ?” 

44 From nine to half-past nine, my 
brother.” 

44 Good. It now wants a quarter 
of nine. You shall give me five mi- 
nutes, therefore. Ventre de biche ! 
It is above eight days since we have 
had an opportunity of dining toge- 
ther.” 

44 That is not our fault,” said Go- 
renflot, 44 and our friendship suffers no 
diminution in consequence, I en- 
treat you to believe this, my dear bro- 
ther. The duties of your office hold 
you bound fast about the person of 
our great King Henry the Third, 
whom may God preserve. The du- 


ties of my situation impose upon me 
the collecting of alms, and prayer, 
when the collection is over. It is not 
so wonderful, therefore, that we 
should be separated.” 

44 Yes! but, Corboeuf!” said Chi- 
cot, 44 it seems to me that this is but 
a reason the more why we should be 
jolly when we meet.” 

44 And so I am, infinitely jolly,’’ 
said Gorenflot, with the most piteous 
grimace in the world. 

44 But nevertheless I must leave 
you.” 

And the monk made a movement 
as if to arise. 

44 Finish your herbs, at least,” said 
Chicot, laying his hand upon his 
shoulder, and forcing him to sit down 
again. 

Gorenflot looked at the spinach, 
and heaved a sigh ; his eyes wandered 
to the colored water, and he turned 
away his head. 

Chicot saw that the moment had 
come in which to make his attack. 

44 Do you remember,” he said, 
44 that little ‘dinner of whffih I was 
speaking to you just now ? hem ! at 
the Porte Montmartre, you know, 
when, while our great King Henry the 
Third was whipping himself, and 
whipping all his friends, we ate a teal 
from the marshes of La Grange Ba- 

o 

teliere, with a crawfish stew ; and 
where we drank that fine Burgundy 
wine ? What was the name of that 
wine ? Was it not a wine which you 
had discovered ?” 

44 It is a wine of my country,’’ said 
Gorenflot, 44 of Romanie.” 

44 Yes, yes, I recollect. It is the 
milk which you sucked on coming 
into the world, O worthy son of 
Noah.” 

Gorenflot turned his tongue over 
his lips with a melancholy smile. 

44 What do you say^of that wine ?” 
said Chicot. 

44 It was good,” replied the monk 
44 But there is much better of the 
kind.” 

44 That is what our host, Claude 
Bonhomet, said to me the other even 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATJ. 


123 


in<r. He insists that he has in his 

o 

cellar fifty bottles, in comparison with 
which, that of his brother inn-keeper 
at the Porte Montmartre, is but thin 
piquette.” 

u It is the truth,” said Gorenflot. 
u It is the truth !” •screamed Chw 
cot ; u the truth ; and you are drink- 
ing colored water — abominable stuff 
like this — when you have only to 
stretch out your arm in order to have 
such wine as that ; pshaw !” 

And Chicot, taking the hanap, cast 
the contents about the room. 

u There is a time for everything, my 
brother,” said Gorenflot. u Wine is 
good when one has nothing to do, 
after drinking it, but to glorify the 
God who made it. But when one has 
a discourse to pronounce, water is 
preferable, not for the taste, but for 
the effects^ Facunda est aqua. — 
u Bah !” said Chicot. u Magis fa- 
cundum est vinum , and the proof of 
it is, that I who have also a discourse 
to pronounce, and who have faith in 
my receipt, am going to call for a 
bottle of that wine of Romanie, and, 
upon my word, what do you advise 
me to take with it, Gorenflot ?” 
u Do not take those herbs,” said 
the monk, u they are exactly as bad 
as it is possible for anything to be.” 
u Bzzzou ! ” said Chicot, taking 
the plate from Gorenflot, and raising 
it to his nose, u Bzzzou !” 

And this time, opening a little 
window, he cast both herbs and plate 
into the street. Then turning him- 
self about, 

u Master Claude !” said he. 

The host, who was probably lis- 
tening with all his ears, appeared on 
the threshold. 

u Master Claude,” said Chicot, 
u bring me two bottles of that Ro- 
manie wine which you pretend to have 
better than anybody.” 

u Two bottles!” said Gorenflot. 
u What do you want with two bot- 
tles, since I am not going to drink ?” 
u If you * were going to drink, I 
should send for four bottles, I should 
send for six bottles, I should send for 


all that he has of it in the house,” 
said Chicot ; u but since I am going 
to drink alone, being but a noor 
drinker, when alone I want but two 
bottles.” 

u In truth,” said Gorenflot, u two 
bottles is a reasonable allowance, and 
if you only eat meagre diet, your 
confessor will have but little cause to 
blame you.” 

u Certainly,” said Chicot ; u meat 
diet on a Lenten Wednesday ! Fie ! 
fie! Gorenflot.” 

And taking his way toward, the 
larder, in which Master Bonhomet 
kept his provisions, while that worthy 
himself went down to the cellar to 
bring up the two bottles of wine 
which had been called for, he drew 
out of it a fine fat chicken from 
Mans. 

u What are you doing there, my 
brother ?” said Gorenflot, who was 
watching all his motions with in- 
voluntary interest, “ what are you do- 
ing there ?” 

u You see I am taking possession 
of this fine carp, for fear that some 
one else should lay his hand on it. 
On Lenten Wednesdays there is a 
great demand for provisions of this, 
kind.” 

u A carp !” said Gorenflot, aston- 
ished. 

“ Certainly, a carp,” said Chicot, 
putting the tempting fowl close before 
his eyes. 

u And how long, I pray you, have 
carps had beaks ?” asked the monk. 

u A beak ? ” said the Gascon, 
“ where do you set? a beak ? I only 
see a muzzle.” 

u And wings ? ” continued the 
monk of Saint-Genevieve. 
u Fins!” answered Chicot. 
u And feathers ?” 
u Seal es, my dear Gorenflot, you 
must be drunk.” 

u Drunk !” cried Gorenflot, u drunk ! 
Oh ! it is likely that I should be 
drunk ; I who have eaten only spinach, 
and drank only water.” 

u Well, what of that ? The spin- 
ach has over-loaded your stomach, 


124 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


and the water has affected your 
brain.” 

“ Parbleu !” said Gorenflot, “ here 
is mine host, let him decide — ” 

“ Decide what ?” 

“ Decide whether this is a chicken 
or a carp.” 

“ Very well. But first, let him 
uncork the wine. I must be satisfied 
whether it is the same. Uncork it, 
Master Claude.” 

Master Claude uncorked a bottle, 
and poured out half a glass for Chicot. 

Chicot swallowed it, and smacked 
his tongue. 

“Ah!” said he, “I am a poor 
taster, and my tongue has a most 
indifferent memary. It would be 
impossible for me to pronounce whe- 
ther it is worse or better than that of 
the Porte Montmartre. I am not 
even certain whether it is the same.” 

Gorenfiot’s eyes sparkled as he saw 
through the bottom of Chicot’s glass 
a few drops of the ruby liquid, which 
he had left within it. 

“ Look you, my brother,” said 
Chicot, “ vou are in this world for 
your neighbor’s good, as well as for 
your own. Assist me,” and he pour- 
ed out about a thimble-full of wine 
into the monk’s glass. 

Gorenflot took the glass, raised it 
to his lips, and suffered the little 
drop of liquid it contained to trickle 
slowly over his lips. 

“It is of the same growth, cer- 
tainly,” said he, “ but ” — 

“ But what ?” said Chicot. 

“ But there was too little of it,” 
said the monk, “ to enable me to 
pronounce whether it is better or 
worse.” 

“ I am resolved to know, however,” 
said Chicot. “ Peste, I will not 
be deceived ; and if you had not 
a discourse to pronounce, I would 
beg of you to taste this wine a 
second time.” 

“ Will it give you pleasure if I do 
so ?” said the monk. 

“ Pardieu ! it will,” said Chicot. 

And he half filled the glass of the 
monk of Saint-Genevieve. 


Gorenflot raised the glass to his 
lips as respectfully as the first time, 
tasted it as conscientiously, and pro- 
nounced judgment. 

“ Better, it is better,” said he ; 
“ I will answer for it.” 

“ Bah !” said Chicot, “you have a 
private understanding with mine 
host.” 

“ A good taster,” replied Goren- 
flot, “ ought to be able to pronounce 
at the first sip the growth, at the se- 
cond the quality, at the third the 
year of the vintage.” 

“ Oh ! the year,” cried Chicot, “ I 
should like to know the year of this 
wine.” 

“ It is very easy,” replied Goren- 
flot, holding out his glass ; “ pour me 
out two drops only and I will tell 
you.” 

Chicot filled the monk’s glass 
three-quarters full. The monk emp- 
tied it slowly, but without making any 
objection. 

“ 1561,” said he, setting down his 
glass. 

“ Christmas !” said Claude Bon- 
homet, “that is well hit; 1561, that 
is true as can be.” 

“ Brother Gorenflot,” said the 
Gascon, taking off his cap ; “ men 
have been canonized at Rome for far 
smaller deserts than yours.” 

“ A little practice,” said Gorenflot, 
“ that is all, brother.” 

“ And a great natural aptitude,” 
said Chicot. “ Peste ! practice could 
never do it. Look at me, who pre- 
tend to have had some practice. 
Well, what are the fruits of it ?” 
“You see, I am rising.” 

“ Why do so ?” 

“ In order to go to my congrega- 
tion.” 

“ What ! without eating a bit of 
my carp ?” 

“ Ah ! that is true,’’ said Goren- 
flot, “it appears to me that you know 
even less of edibles than you do of 
potables. Master Bonhomet, what 
animal is this ?” 

And brother Gorenflot showed him 
the subject of discussion. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


125 


The inn-keeper stared astonished 
in the face of his questioner. 

u Yes,” replied Chicot, u you are 
asked what animal that is.” 

“Parbleu!” said the landlord, 
u it is chicken.” 

“A chicken !’’ exclaimed Chicot, 
with an expression of dismay. 

u And a chicken of Mans too !” said 
Master Claude. 

“ What say you now ?” asked Go- 
renflot triumphantly. 

u Well !” said Chicot, u I was 
wrong, I suppose ; but, since it is so, 
and since I am very desirous of eating 
this chicken, and yet of not sinning, 
will you not do me the favor, my 
brother, in the name of our recipro- 
cal sentiments, to cast a few drops of 
water on it, and to christen it carp ?” 
u Ah !” said Gorenflot, u ah !” 
u Yes, I pray you to do so,” said 
Chicot, u lest I should perhaps eat 
some animal in a state of mortal sin.” 
u Be it so,” said Gorenflot, who, 
naturally a boon companion, began 
to feel himself in the humor for it, 
owing to the three tastes he had tak- 
en, u but there is no more water.” 
u It is said,” replied Chicot, u I 
know not where, thou shalt serve thy- 
self with whatever is at hand in the 
case of extremities. The intention 
is everything. Baptize it with wine, 
brother, baptize it with wine. The 
animal will be, perhaps, less catholic, 
but it will be more agreeable.” 

And Chicot filled the monk’s glass 
to the brim. The first bottle was 
tsmpty. 

u In the name of Bacchus, of Mo- 
mus, and of Comus, the trinity of 
the great Saint Pantagruel,” said 
Gorenflot, u I baptize thee Carp.” 
And dipping the tips of his fingers 
in the wine, he let fall two or three 
drops upon the animal. 

u Now,” said the Gascon, clinking 
his glass against that of the monk, 
“ to the health of the newly baptized, 
may it be cooked to a turn, and may 
the art which Master Claude Bon- 
homet is about to display in its pre- 
paration add yet more excellence to 


the excellent qualities it has received 
from the hand of Nature !” 

u To its health!” cried Gorenflot, 
interrupting a noisy laugh to toss oflf 
the glass of Burgundy which Chicot 
had poured out for him ; u this is 
brave wine.” 

u Master Claude,” said Chicot, 
u put me this carp upon a spit. Baste 
him with fresh butter, among which 
you shall mince, very fine, some ba- 
con and some shalots ; then, when it 
is beginning to get brown, slip two 
slices of toast into the dripping-pan, 
and serve it up hot.” 

Gorenflot did not breathe a word, 
but he had approbation in his eye, 
and, with a certain little nod of the 
head, he expressed his perfect assent 
u Now,” said Chicot, when he had 
seen his intentions in progress of ful- 
filment, u some sardines, Master Bon- 
homet, and some thunny fish ! This 
is Lent, as the very pious brother 
Gorenflot observed but now, and I 
wish to dine entirely on fast- day fare. 
And then — wait a moment — two 
other bottles of that excellent Ro- 
manie wine, of 1561.” 

The savory perfume of the 
cookery, which recalled to mind that 
cookery of the South which is so dear 
to the genuine epicure, began to dif- 
fuse itself sensibly abroad, and to 
penetrate to the brain of the monk. 
His tongue became moist, his eyes 
sparkled, but still he restrained him- 
self, and even made an attempt to 
rise and depart. 

u So then,” said Chicot, u you will 
leave me thus, even at the moment of 
the combat ?” 

u I must do so,^my brother,” said 
Gorenflot, turning up his eyes to hea- 
ven, as if to indicate to the Lord the 
sacrifice he was making for him. 

O 

“It is very imprudent in you to 
begin to deliver a discourse, in this 
condition, fasting.” 
u Wherefore ?” stammered the monk. 
u Because your lungs will fail you, 
my brother. Gallienus saith : Pulmo 
hominis facile deficit ; a man’s lungs 
readily give way.” 


326 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


“ Alas f I know it,” said Gorenflot, 
“ and I have often experienced it my- 
self. If I had been blessed with 
lungs, I should have been a thunder- 
bolt of eloquence. ” 

“ You see the truth of what I say,” 
interposed Chicot. 

“ Fortunately,” replied Gorenfllot 
letting himself drop into a chair, 
“ fortunately I have zeal. ” 

“ Yes, but zeal is not sufficient — 
wore I you, I would eat one sardine, 
and take a few drops more of this de- 
licious nectar.” 

“ One single sardine,” said Go- 
renflot, “ and one single glass of 
wine.” 

Chicot put one sardine on his plate, 
and passed the second bottle to him. 

The monk eat the sardine, and 
drank the contents of the glass. 

“ Well,” asked Chicot, who, while 
pushing the monk of Saint-Genevieve 
to the utmost, on the articles of food 
and wine, was keeping himself very 
sober, “ how are you now ?” 

“ In truth,” said Gorenflot, “I 
do feel a little stronger.” 

“ Ventre de biche /” said Chicot, 
“ when one has got a discourse to 
pronounce, it is not a question of 
being a little stronger, but of feeling 
perfectly up to the mark, and in your 
place,” continued the Gascon, “ I 
would eat the two fins of this carp ; 
for if you do not eat more, there will 
be some danger of your feeling your 
wine. Merum robrio male olet . ” 

“ Ah ! the devil ! you are right, I 
had forgotten that,” said Gorenflot. 

And as, at this very moment the 
chicken was taken off the spit, Chicot 
cut off one of the feet which he had 
christened fins, and the monk ate it 
with the leg and thigh. 

“ Corps du Christ /” exclaimed 
‘Gorenflot, “ this is a savory fish.” 
Chicot cut off the second fin, and 
laid it down on the monk’s plate, 
while he was delicately sucking a 
wing himself. 

u And famous wine!’’ said he, as 
he uncorked the third bottle. 

Once launched, once warmed, once 


awakened to the deepest abysses of 
his vast stomach, Gorenflot had no 
longer the power to restrain himself — 
he devoured the wing, made a skele- 
ton of the body, and called Bonhomet. 

“ Master Claude,” said he, u I am 
dreadfully hungry. Did you not of- 
fer me an omelette with bacon?” 

“ Certainly,” said Chicot, “ and it 
is also ordered, is it not, Bonhomet ?” 

“ Certainly it is,” said the land- 
lord, who never contradicted his cus- 
tomers, when agreeing with them 
tended to an increase of consumption, 
and consequently of expense. 

“ Well, bring it, bring it, master,” 
said the monk. 

“ In five minutes,” replied the 
host, who at a glance from Chicot 
went out to prepare diligently what 
was ordered. 

“Ah!” said Gorenflot, letting 
his huge fist, armed with his fork, fall 
heavily upon the table, “ this goes 
better.’’ 

“ Does it not ?” said Chicot. 

“ And if the omelette were here, I 
would make but one mouthful, as of 
this glassful I make but one swallow.” 

And with an eye sparkling with 
gluttony, the monk swallowed a 
fourth part of the third bottle. 

“ Ah! so, so,’’ said Chicot, “you 
were sick then before.” 

“ I was an ass, my friend,” said 
Gorenflot, this “ accursed discourse 
has put me out of heart. I have 
thought of nothing else these three 
days past.” 

“ It ought to be magnificent,” said 
Chicot. 

“ Splendid,” said the monk. 

“Tell me some of it, while we are 
waiting for the omelette.” 

“No indeed!” said Gorenflot, 
“ a sermon at table, where did you 
ever hear that, fool ? at the court of 
the king your master ?” 

“ They pronounce very fine discours- 
es at the Court of King Henry, whom 
may God preserve !” said Chicot, rais- 
ing his hat. 

“ On what do those discourses 
turn?” asked Gorenflot. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU- 


127 


u On virtue,” said Chicot. 
u Ah yes !” said the monk, throwing 
himself back in his chair, u according 
to what you tell me this King Henry 
the Third of yours must be a very 
virtuous sort of gallant.’’ 

u I do not know whether he is vir- 
tuous or not ; but I know that I 
never have seen cause to blush for 
anything that I have seen him do.’’ 
U I believe you, s’ death !’’ said the 
monk. u It is long enough since you 
have blushed, Master Wanton.” 
u Oh !” said Chicot, u wanton ’ 
I, indeed, who am abstinence in 
person, continence in flesh and blood, 
1 who am one in all processions, in 
all fasts !” 

u Yes. In all the fasts of your 
Sardanapalus, of your Nebuchadnez- 
zar, of your Herodes. Processions 
for self-interest, fasts from calculation ! 
Fortunately people are beginning to 
know your King Henry by heart, 
whom may the devil carry away.” 
And Gorenflot, in lieu of the dis- 
course which he had refused, set up 
a song at the top ofliis voice. 

The King to get a little tin, 

Has played the beggar for his sin, 

And hypocrite. 

Great pardon has he won at last, 

By bread and water, scourge and fast 
Like a Hermit. 

But Paris knows him, that is plain, 

And will not lend a doit again, 

At his request. 

For he has begged and borrowed so 
That they but laugh who see him go 
Of alms in quest.” 

u Bravo !” cried Chicot, u Bravo !” 
Then in a whisper, he said to him- 
self, u Good 1 he is singing, he will 
talk soon.” 

At this moment Master Bonhomet 
entered, bearing the famous omelette 
in one hand, and in the other two 
fresh bottles. 

“ Bring, bring,” cried the monk, 
whose eyes gleamed greedily, and 
whose broad grin displayed the whole 
of his two and thirty teeth. 

“ But, my friend,” said Chicot, 
44 it seems to me that you have a dis- 
course to pronounce.” 


44 The discourse is there,” said the 
monk, tapping his forehead, which 
was beginning to be invaded by tho 
crimson flush from his cheeks. 

44 At half-past eight,” said Chicot. 

44 I lied about it,” said the monk. 
44 Omnis homo est mendax ; confi - 
teor .” 

44 And at what o’clock is it really 
to be ?” 

44 At ten o’clock.” 

44 At ten o’clock ? I thought the 
abbey gates were closed at nine.” 

44 Let them be closed,” said Go- 
renflot, looking at the candle through 
the block of ruby contained in his 
glass. 44 I have the key.” 

44 The key of the abbey ?” exclaim- 
ed Chicot. 44 You have the key of 
the abbey ?” 

44 There, in my pocket,” said Go- 
renflot, tapping on the bosom of his 
frock. 

44 Impossible,’’ said Chicot. 44 I 
know the rules of monasteries. I have 
been in penitence in three convents. 
The keys of abbeys are not confided 
to simple brothers.” 

44 There it is,” said Gorenflot 
leaning back in his chair, and show 
ing a piece of money to Chicot, with 
great self- gratulat ion. 

44 WTiat, money?” said Chicot. 
44 Ah ! I understand. You bribe the 
brother door-keeper, in order to get in 
at whatever hour you desire, mise- 
rable sinner that you are f ” 

Gorenflot stretched his mouth to 
his very ears, with that devout and 
gracious smile, which is so natural to 
a drunken man. 

44 Sufficit ,” he stammered. 

And he was about to return the 
money to his pocket, when Chicot 
I stopped his hand. 

44 Hold ! that is queer money.” 

44 With the effigy of the heretic,” 
said Gorenflot. 44 With a hole, 
moreover, in the region of the 
breast.” 

44 In fact, it is a test on, coined by 
the King of Bearn, and here is ao 
, tually a hole in it.” 
i 44 A poniard wound,” said Gorea- 


m 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


flot. 44 Death to the heretic! He I 
who shall kill the heretic is canonized 
beforehand, and I give him my share 
of Paradise.” 

44 Aha !” said Chicot, 44 things are 
beginning to define themselves. But 
the wretch is not drunk enough yet.” 

And he filled the monk’s glass to 
the brim again, 

44 Yes,” said the Gascon, 44 death 
to the heretic, and huzza for the 
mass.” 

44 Huzza for the mass !” said Go- 
renflot, gulping down his wine at a 
single swallow. 44 Huzza for the 
mass.” 

44 Thus,” said Chicot, who, as soon 
as he saw the teston in the hollow 
of his comrade’s huge hand, began to 
think of the brother porter examin- 
ing the hands of all the monks whom 
he had seen flowing so abundantly 
into the porch of the abbey, 44 thus, 
as you go in, you will show this piece 
of money to the brother doorkeep- 
er” — 

u And 1 shall enter,” said Gorenflot. 

44 Without difficulty ?” 

44 With as little difficulty as this 
glass of wine enters my stomach.” 

And the monk absorbed a new dose 
of the generous liquid. 

44 Peste !” said Chicot, 44 if the com- 
parison be correct, you must enter 
without much difficulty.” 

44 I mean to say,” said Gorenflot, 
who was now all but dead drunk, 44 I 
mean to say that they throw both 
leaves of the gate open for brother 
Gorenflot.” 

44 And you pronounce your dis- 
course ?’’ 

. 44 And I pronounce my discourse,” 
said the monk. 44 This is the way in 
which that is done. I arrive — do 
you hear me, Chicot ? — I arrive’’ — 

44 I believe, indeed, that I do hear 
you ; I am all ears,” said Chicot. 

44 I arrive, then, as I was saying. 
The assembly is numerous and select. 
Here are barons, there are counts, 
there are dukes’’ — 

44 And even princes,” interrupted 
Chicot. 


44 And even princes,” repeated the 
monk. 44 Thou hast said it ; princes, 
no less. W ell ! I enter humbly among 
the faithful of the Union.” 

44 The faithful of the Union?” re- 
peated Chicot, in his turn. 44 What 
sort of fidelity is that, I wonder ?” 

44 I advance among; the faithful of 

O 

the Union ; they call for brother Go- 
renflot, and I go forward.’’ 

At these words he rose from his chair. 
44 Go it,” said Chicot ; 44 advance.” 
44 And I advance,” said Gorenflot, 
endeavoring to suit the action to the 
word. But scarcely had he made two 
steps before he tripped against the 
angle of the table, and rolled over on 
the floor. 

4 ‘ Bravo !” said Chicot, picking 
him up, and setting him on a chair. 
44 You advance ; you salute your a7i- 
dience, and you say” — 

44 No. I do not say. It is my 
friends who say” — 

44 And what do your friends say ?” 
44 My friends say, 4 Brother Go- 
renflot ! Brother Gorenflot ’s dis- 
course.’ Ha ! a fine name for a Lea- 
guer, is brother Gorenflot !” 

And the monk repeated his own 
name with a delightful intonation of 
voice. 

44 A fine name for a leaguer ?” re- 
peated Chicot. 44 What truth is 
coming out next, from the wine of 
this drunkard ?” 

44 Then I begin.” 

And with the words the monk arose, 
shut his eyes because he was giddy, 
leaned against the wall because he 
was dead drunk, and proceeded, stut 
tering and stammering in his speech 
44 And you begin,” said Chicot, 
holding him up against the wall, as 
the clown holds up Harlequin 

44 I begin 4 My brethren, this is 
a fine day for the faith. My breth- 
ren, this is a very fine day for the 
faith !” 

After this superlative, Chicot saw 
clearly that there was nothing more 
to be got out of the monk. There 
fore he let him go. 

Then brother Gorenflot, whose 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


equilibrium was preserved only by 
means of the support which he deriv- 
ed from Chicot, as soon as that sup- 
port was withdrawn from him, slip- 
ped down by the side of the wall like 
an ill-secured plank, and struck the 
table with his feet as he fell, the 
shock making the empty bottles 
dance upon it, and oversetting 
some of them. 

44 Amen !” said Chicot. 

Almost immediately, a snoring, 
like the noise of distant thunder, 
shook the window panes of the nar- 
row closet. 

“ Good,” said Chicot. “ The 
chicken’s feet are producing their 
effect. Our friend is in for twelve 
hours’ sleep, and I can undress him 
without any trouble.” 

Then, judging, doubtless, that there 
was no time to be lost, Chicot untied 
the cords which formed the girdle of 
the monk’s gown ; drew both his arms 
out of it ; and, rolling Gorenflot over 
like a sack of wheat, he wrapped him 
up in the table-cloth, tied the napkin 
round his head, and making a bundle 
of the frock, placed it under his 
cloak, and went out into the kitchen. 

44 Master Bonhomet,” said he, 
44 here is a rose noble, that is for my 
supper ; that is for my horse’s sup- 
per, whom I recommend to your care ; 
and above all, that is as a memento 
to you not to awaken brother Goren- 
flot, who is sleeping like a jolly fellow. ” 

44 Good !” said the innkeeper, who 
found his own account in doing these 
three things. 44 Good. Fear nothing 
on that score, Monsieur Chicot.” 

On this assurance, Chicot went out, 
and, light as a deer, quick-sighted as 
a fox, he had soon gained the angle 
of the Rue Saint-Etienne, where, 
after having very carefully placed the 
teston, with the effigy of the Bear- 
nois, in the palm of his right hand, 
he put on his monk’s robe and cowl, 
and at a quarter before ten o’clock 
presented himself, not without a cer- 
tain beating of the heart, at the 
wicket of the Abbey of Saint-Gene- 
vieve. 


IX) 

CHAPTER VI. 

HOW CHICOT DISCOVERED THAT IT IS 

EASIER TO GET INTO THE ABBEY 

OF SAINT GENEVIEVE THAN TO GET 

OUT OF IT. 

When Chicot put on the monk’s 
frock, he had taken a prudent and 
important precaution ; this was, to 
double the breadth of his shoulders 
by a clever arrangement of his cloak 
and other garments, which the monk’s 
frock rendered useless. His beard 
was of the same color with that of 
Gorenflot, and, although one of them 
was born on the banks of the Saone, 
and the other on those of the Garonne, 
he had often amused himself by 
counterfeiting the voice of his friend, 
which he had, at length, brought him- 
self to imitate so perfectly, that they 
might readily be mistaken the one 
for the other. Now every one knows 
that the two chief things which is- 
sue from the depths of a monk’s 
cowl, are the voice and the beard. 

The door was on the point of clos- 
ing when Chicot arrived, and the 
brother door-keeper was only waiting 
for the arrival of some laggards. The 
Gascon exhibited his Bearnois pierced 
to the heart, and was admitted with- 
out opposition. Two monks preceded 
him ; he followed them, and penetrat- 
ed with them into the chapel of the 
convent, with which he was well ac- 
quainted, seeing that he had often 
accompanied the King thither, for the 
King had given his protection most 
particularly to the Abbey of Saint- 
Genevieve. 

The chapel was of the Roman 
style ; that is to say, it dated from 
the eleventh or twelfth century, and, 
like all chapels of that epoch, the 
choir was built over a crypt or sub- 
terranean church. The consequence 
of this was, that the choir was eight 
or nine feet higher than the nave ; 
and that persons ascended into the 
choir by two lateral staircases, while 
an iron door, opening between the 
two, gave entrance from the nave into 


9 


130 


DIAfcA OP MERIDOR ; OR, 


the crypt, within, the door ' once 
opened, there was a descent of as 
many steps as there was an ascent to 
the choir by the staircases. 

In this choir, which overlooked the 
whole church, on either hand of the 
altar, above which hung a picture of 
Saint-Genevieve, attributed to the 
Maestro Rosso, were the statues of 
Clovis and Clotilde. 

Three lamps were all that lighted 
the chapel ; one hanging in the mid- 
dle of the choir, the others at equal 
distances in the nave. 

This light, which was hardly suf- 
ficient, gave greater solemnity to the 
appearance of the church by extend- 
ing its proportions indefinitely, since 
the imagination had room to carry 
out to boundless distance those por- 
tions which were veiled in shadow. 

Chicot wanted, at first, to accus- 
tom his eyes to the darkness ; in 
order to exercise them, he amused 
himself by counting the monks. 
There were a hundred and twenty in 
the nave, and twelve in the choir, a 
hundred and thirty-two in all. The 
twelve monks in the choir were ranged 
in a single line in front of the altar, 
and appeared to be defending the 
tabernacle like a line of sentinels. 

Chicot saw with pleasure that he 
was not the last to join those whom 
brother Gorenflot called the brethren 
of Union. Behind him three monks 
entered the chapel, clad in simple 
grey robes, who went and took post 
in front of the line which we have 
compared to a rank of sentinels. 

A little monkish boy, whom Chicot 
had not previously observed, and who 
was undoubtedly one of the choris- 
ters of the convent, now made a cir- 
cuit round the chapel, as if to see 
that every person was at his post ; 
when, the inspection finished, he went 
and spoke to one of the last coiners, 
him who stood in the middle of the 
three. 

u We are a hundred and thirty- 
six,” said the monk in a powerful 
voice. “ That is the reckoning of 
the Lord.” 


Then the monks, who were in the 
nave on their knees, a hundred and 
twenty in number, rose to their feet, 
and took their places on the chairs or 
in the stalls. Ere long, a great 
sound of bolts and hinges announced 
that the massive doors were closed. 

It was not without a certain beating 
of the heart, that Chicot, brave as he 
was, listened to the grating of the 
locks. In order to gain time to col- 
lect himself, he seated himself in the 
shadow of the pulpit, whence his eyes 
naturally bore on the three monks 
who appeared to be the principal 
persons of that assemblage. 

Arm-chairs had been brought for 
them, and they remained seated, as 
if they had been three judges. Be- 
hind them, the twelve monks of the 
choir stood erect. 

When the tumult occasioned by the 
closing of the doors, and the change 
of attitudes of the assistants, was over, 
a little bell rang thrice. 

That, undoubtedly, was the signal 
for silence, for prolonged whispers, 
hush, hush , were heard during the 
tw r o first tinklings, and at the third, 
every sound was stilled. 

u Brother Monsoreau,” said the 
same monk, who had already spoken, 
u what news do you bring from the 
Union of the province of Anjou ?” 

Two things made Chicot prick his 
ears. 

The first was that voice, of a tone 
so firm and trumpet-like, that it 
seemed fitted rather to issue on a 
battle-field, from a leader’s visor, 
than in a church from a cowled 
monk’s hood. 

The second was that name, brother 
Monsoreau, which had been known 
only within a few days, and pro- 
duced no small sensation. 

A monk of tall stature, whose robe 
fell into angular folds as he walked for- 
ward, traversed a part of the assembly, 
and with a firm, bold foot, ascended 
the steps of the pulpit. Chicot en- 
deavored to see his face, but it was 
impossible. 

u Good,” said he, “ if I cannot 


THE LAD1 OF MONSOREAU. 


131 


see their faces, at least they cannot 
see mine.” 

u My brothers,” a voice then be- 
gan, which by its first accents Chicot 
recognized as that of the Grand Mas- 
ter of the King’s staghounds, “ the 
news from the province of Anjou is 
not satisfactory, not because we lack 
sympathisers, but because we lack 
representatives. The propagation of 
the Union in this province, was en- 
trusted to the Baron of Meridor, but 
the old man, driven to despair by the 
recent death of his daughter, has, in 
his grief, neglected the business of 
the Holy League, and until he shall 
be consoled for his loss, we cannot 
reckon on his active co-operation. 
For my part, I have brought in three 
new adhesions, and according to the 
rule, I have deposited them in the 
convent turning-box. The council 
will judge whether these three per- 
sons, for whom, be it said, moreover, 
I am ready to answer as for myself, 
shall be admitted to form a part of 
the Holy Union.” 

A murmur of approbation ran 
through the ranks of the monks, and 
brother Monsoreau had returned to his 
own seat before that murmur ceased. 

“ Brother La Huriere,” resumed 
the same monk, who appeared to have 
the privilege of calling upon those 
whom he pleaded among the faithful, 
“ tell us what you have done among 
the people of the city of Paris.” 

A man with a slouched hood, in 
his turn, appeared in the chair which 
Monsieur de Monsoreau had just left 
vacant. ' 

u My brothers,” said he, “ you all 
know if I am thoroughly devoted to 
the Catholic faith, and if I have 
given proofs of that devotion, during 
the great day on which that faith 
triumphed. Yes, my brethren, on 
that great day, and I shall never 
cease to be proud and happy on that 
account, I was one of the faithful 
followers of our great Henry of Guise, 
and it is from the very mouth of 
Monsieur de Besme himself, to whom 
may God grant all his benedictio ,s, 


that I received the orders which he 
deigned to give me, and which I fol- 
lowed with obedience so absolute that 
I slew the lodgers in my own house. 
Now, this proof of devotion to that 
holy cause procured me to be nomi- 
nated head officer of that ward, and I 
can venture to affirm that, my nomi- 
nation has been a fortunate event for 
the cause of religion. I have had 
an opportunity of noting all the 
heretics of the quarter of Saint-Ger- 
main, in which I live, in the Rue de 
l’Arbre Sec, at the hostel of the c Belle 
Etoile,’ at your service, and having 
noted them, have the ability to desig- 
nate them to our friends. It is true 
that I have no longer that thirst for 
the blood of the Huguenots which 
actuated me in former days, but I can- 
not dissemble to myself the real object 
of this Holy Union which we are on 
the point of founding.” 

u Let me listen,” said Chicot. 
“This La Huriere was, if I recollect 
rightly, a furious killer of Pluguenots, 
and he ought to know the League in 
its whole length and breadth, if one 
is measured among Messieurs the 
Leaguers according to the aciual mea- 
sure of his deserts.” 

u Speak, speak,” cried several 
voices. 

La Huriere, who found this an op- 
portunity singularly well adapted for 
the display of his oratorical powers, 
which he had rarely had an occasion 
for developing, but which he believed 
to be innate within himself, collected 
himself for a moment, coughed, and 
began as follows : 

“ If I be not in error, my brothers, 
the extinction of particular heresies 
is ndt that at which we are princi- 
pally aiming. It is necessary that 
the good men of France should be 
satisfied that there never shall be a 
heretic found among the princes called 
to govern them. Now, my brothers, 
how do we stand? Francis II., who 
promised to be a zealous churchman, 
died childless. King Henry III., of 
whose actions or doctrines it is not 
for me to express an opinion, will 


132 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


probably die childless. The Duke 
of Anjou will then remain, who not 
only is as yet childless, but who ap- 
pears to be lukewarm toward the 
Holy League.” 

Several voices here interrupted the 
speaker, among which was prominent 
that of the Master of the Royal 
Hounds. 

u Wherefore lukewarm ?” said the 
voice, u and who authorizes you to 
bring that accusation against the 
prince ?” 

u I say lukewarm, because he has 
not hitherto sent in his adhesion to 
the League, although the illustrious 
brother who has just spoken, has posi- 
tively promised us his name.” 

u Who tells you that he has not 
sent in his adhesfon, since new adhe- 
sions are received ?” cried the voice. 
u You have no right, it seems to me, 
to -suspect any person, until after the 
summing up of the ballots shall have 
been completed.” 

u That is true,” said La Huriere, 
u and I will therefore wait yet awhile. 
But after the Duke of Anjou, who is 
liable to die, and who has no chil- 
dren — and let it be observed, that this 
family dies young — to whom does the 
crown descend ? To the fiercest Hu- 
guenot that can be imagined, to a ren- 
egade, to a relapsed heretic, to a 
Nebuchadnezzar. ” 

Here, instead of a murmur, it was 
a roar of frantic applause, that greet- 
ed the words of La Huriere. 

u To Henry of Bearn, in a word,” 
he continued, u against whom especial- 
ly this association is leagued together. 
To Henry of Bearn, who is often be- 
lieved to be at Pau or at Tarbes, bu- 
sied about his love intrigues, when he 
is met in the streets of Paris.” 

u Of Paris ?”■ — exclaimed several 
voices. u The streets of Paris ? — 
That is impossible.” 

u He was there,” cried La Hu- 
riere, u on the night in which Madame 
de Sauve was assassinated. Perhaps 
he is there e*ren now.” 

“ Death to the Beamais !” shouted 
several voices. 


u Yes, certainly, death to him !” 
cried La Huriere ; u and should he 
chance to take his lodgings at c La 
Belle Etoile,’ I will answer for him. 
But he will not come thither. One 
does not catch an old fox twice in 
the same hole. He will go to lodge 
elsewhere, at the house of some friend, 
for the heretic has friends. Well! It 
is the number of his friends which it 
is our business to diminish or to 
make known. Our Union is Holy ; 
our League is loyal, consecrated, 
blessed, encouraged by our Holy Fa- 
ther the Pope, Gregory the Third. 
I ask them, wherefore the mystery is 
kept up any longer ; wherefore are 
not lists delivered to the chief officers 
of the wards ; wherefore are they not 
sent with these lists to all the houses, 
to invite all the good citizens to sign 
them ? Those who shall sign will be 
our friends, those who refuse shall be 
our enemies ; and should the oppor- 
tunity for a second Saint-Bartholo- 
mew present itself, which appears to 
the true believers to be becoming 

O 

more and more necessary, we will do 
what we ought to have done in the 
first instance, we will save Heaven 
the trouble of separating itself the 
good from the evil.” 

At this peroration, thunders of 
applause again burst forth ; then, 
when they had at last become quiet, 
though so slowly and so tumultuous- 
ly, as to make it evident that they 
were interrupted only, not concluded, 
the grave voice of the monk, which 
had been already several times heard, 
was heard once more, exclaiming — 
u The proposition of brother La 
Huriere, whom the Holy Union thanks 
for his zeal, shall be taken into consi- 
deration. It will be debated before 
the superior council.” 

Thereupon, the applause redoubled 
La Huriere bowed several times, as it 
to thank the assembly, and descend- 
ing the steps from the pulpit, return- 
ed to his place actually weighed down 
by the greatness of his triumph. 

“ Ah ! ah !” said Chicot to himself, 
u I begin to see clearly into this bu- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


133 


siness. They have less confidence, 
as regards the Catholic faith, in my 
eon Henry, than they have in Charles j 
IXth, and Messieurs the Guise, j 
That is probable enough, since the 
Mayenne is at work in all this. Mes- 
sieurs de Guise wish to form a little 
separate society within the state, of 
which they shall be the masters. Thus 
the great Henry, who is a general, 
shall hold the armies ; thus the stout 
Mayenne shall hold the burghers ; thus 
the illustrious Cardinal shall hold the 
Church, and some, fine morning my 
son Henry will discover that he has 
nothing left but his rosary, with which 
he will be invited to retire into a mo- 
nastery. Powerfully argued. Well ! 
well ! it is so. But the Duke d’ An- 
jou remains. The devil, what will 
they make, I wonder, of the Duke 
d’Anjou ?” 

u Brother Gorenflot !” cried the 
voice of the monk, which had already 
summoned the master of the stag- 
hounds and La Huriere. Whether it 
was, however, that he was engrossed 
by the reflections, which we have just 
been transmitting to our readers, or 
that he had not yet got the habit of 
replying to the name which he had 
assumed, together with the frock of 
the begging friar, Chicot made no reply. 

u Brother Gorenflot !” repeated the 
chorister, in a voice so shrill and 
clear, that Chicot started. 

u Hola !” he muttered to himself, 
u one would say that this is a woman’s 
voice which is calling brother Goren- 
flot. Is it possible, then, that in this 
honorable assembly, not only all 
ranks, but all sexes are confounded ?” 

u Brother Gorenflot,” repeated the 
same feminine voice, a are you not 
here, then ?” 

u Ah ! what is this ?” said Chicot 
to himself. u Brother Gorenflot ! that 
is I ; come, come !” then he exclaim- 
ed aloud : 

u Yes, yes,” said he, snuffling like 
the monk, u Here I am, here I am. I 
was busied in the deep meditations 
into which I was cast by the discourse 


% 

of Brother La Huriere, so that 1 did 
not hear when I was called.” 

Some murmurs of retrospective 
approbation were heard in favor of 
La Huriere, whose words had struck a 
kindred tone in many hearts, and gave 
Chicot the time to prepare himself. 

Chicot, it will perhaps be said, 
might have failed to reply to the 
name of Gorenflot, since no one had 
yet raised his hood. But it must be 
remarked, that those present had all 
been counted. They were all known 
therefore, and expected, so that if an 
inspection of faces had been called 
for — and an inspection would of course 
have been called for, if a man was 
found absent, who was believed to be 
present — the fraud would have been 
discovered, and Chicot would havo 
been in imminent danger. 

Chicot, therefore, hesitated not one 
moment. He rose, spread himself 
out so as to appear as bulky as he 
could, ascended the steps of the pul- 
pit, and still, as he ascended, drew 
down his hood over his face as far as 
he could. 

u My brothers,” said he, imitating 
the monk’s voice so perfectly, that no 
one would have suspected the cheat 
u I am the begging friar of this con 
vent ; and you all know that this 
office gives me the right of entering 
all houses. That right, therefore, I 
make use of for the glory of the 
Lord. 

“ My brethren,” he continued, 
calling to mind Gorenflot’s exordium 
so unexpectedly shortened by the slum- 
ber, which at that very moment, 
thanks to the liquids he had absorb- 
ed, still held enchained irresistibly 
the real Gorenflot. u My brethren, 
this day which re-assembles us here, 
is a great day for the true faith. Let 
us speak frankly, therefore, my bro- 
thers, since we are in the house of the 
Lord. 

u What is the Kingdom of France? 
A body. Saint Augustin has said, 
omnis civitas corpus est. 4 Every city 
is a body.’ What is the condition 


134 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


of weal in si body ? Good health. 
How is good health maintained? By 
■practising prudent bleedings, when 
there is a surplus of strength. Now, 
it is evident that the enemies of the 
Catholic religion are unduly strong, 
since we are afraid of them. We 
must therefore once again bleed this 
great body, which is called society. 
This is what is repeated to me daily 
*>y the faithful, whose eggs, whose 
hams, and whose money, I bring into 
the convent.” 

This first part of Chicot’s discourse 
made a lively impression on the au- 
dience. 

Chicot gave time for the subsidence 
of the murmur of applause which he 
had called up, and when it had be- 
come more tranquil, he resumed. 

44 It will, perhaps, here be objected to 
me, that the church abhors bloodshed, 
ecclesia abhorret a sanguine” he con- 
tinued. 44 But observe this well, my 
dear brethren ; the theologian says 
not what blood it is which the church 
abhors, and I will bet an ox to an egg, 
that in any case it is not the blood 
of heretics which he means. In fact, 
Foils malus , corruptorum sanguis here - 
ticorum autem pessimus ! and then, 
another argument, my brothers. I 
said the church ! But we are not all 
of us attached to the church. Bro- 
ther Monsoreau, who but now spoke 
to you so eloquently, has, I am cer- 
tain, his hunting knife at his girdle, 
as the symbol of his great office. 
Brother La Huriere handles the spit 
readily : V-eru agreste , lethiferum ta- 
men instrumentum. I, myself, my 
brothers, who am speaking to you, I, 
Jacques Nepomucene Gorenflot, have 
myself carried a musket in Champagne, 
and have burned Huguenots in their 
meeting-houses. That would have 
been a sufficient honor for me, and I 
should have esteemed my way secure. 
At least, 1 believed so, when suddenly 
some scruples were excited in my con- 
duct. The she Huguenots, before 
being burned, were violat ed a little. It 
seems that spoiled the beauty of the 
action ; at least so said my direc 


tor Therefore I made haste to enter 
the church, in order, by religion, to 
wash away the stain which the here- 
tics had left on me, and from that mo- 
ment forth, I made a vow to pass the 
remainder of my life in abstinence, 
and to frequent none thereafter but 
good Catholics.” 

This, the second part of the ora- 
tor’s discourse, had no less success 
than the first part, and every one ap- 
peared to admire the means which 
heaven had adopted, in order to bring 
about the conversion of brother Go- 
renflot. 

A few cries of applause were conse- 
quently mingled with a murmur of 
approbation. Chicot bowed modestly 
to the assembly. 

44 It remains to us now,” resumed 
Chicot, 44 only to speak of the chiefs 
whom we have taken to ourselves, and 
concerning whom, it appears to me, 
poor unworthy monk of St. Gene- 
vieve that I am, that there are a few 
words to be spoken. Certainly it is 
fine, and above all prudent, to come 
in under the shade of night, clad in 
cowls, to hear brother Gorenflot preach. 
Yet it appears to me that the duty 
of those to whom so high offices are 
entrusted, is not limited to that. So 
great prudence is enough to cause 
those damned Huguenots to laugh, 
who, after all, are ready enough, 
when it comes to cut and thrust. I 
demand, then, that we assume a bear- 
ing more worthy of the men of heart 
we are, or at least would seem to be. 
What is it that we devise ? The ex- 
tinction of heresy. Well ! then, that 
may be cried about, it seems to me, 
on the house tops. Why do we not 
march, I say, through the streets of 
Paris, making a spectacle of our good 
array, and our bright partizans ; but 
not like nightly thieves, who look 
around at every cross-road, to see if 
the watch is coming ? But you will 
say, perhaps, where is the man to set 
us this fine example ? Well, then, it 
shall be I. I, Jacques Nepomucene 
Gorenflot — even I, unworthy brother 
of the order of Saint-Genevieve ; 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


135 


humble and poor alms collector of the | 
convent . It shall be I, who, with 
cuirass on back, and steel cap on 
head, and musket on shoulder, will 
march, if need shall be, at the head 
of all good Catholics who will follow 
me, and this is that which I will do 
if it be but to cause the concealed 
leaders of the League to blush, who 
kick themselves, as if, in defending the 
holy church, they were maintaining 
some ribald quarrel.” 

Chicot’s peroration, which corres- 
ponded with the sentiments of many 
of the Leaguers, who could not see the 
necessity of proceeding in any other 
way than that, the gate of which had 
been thrown up by Saint-Bartholo- 
mew’s, six years before, kindled that 
sacred fire in the hearts of all ; and, 
with the exception of the three cowled 
leaders, who remained silent, the 
whole assembly began to cry aloud as 
if with one voice : u Huzza for the 
Mass ! Good luck, and all hail to 
brother Gorenflot l The procession ! 
the procession!” 

The enthusiasm was so much the 
more violently excited, because it 
was the first time that the worthy 
brother had ever presented himself 
under such colors. Even among his 
most intimate friends he had been set 
down as a man zealous beyond doubt, 
but zealous as those men are whose 
spirit of self-preservation restrains 
them within the bounds of prudence. 
From this half-tint, in which he had hi- 
therto remained, brother Gorenflot 
dartedforth at once, armedfor war, in- 
to the broad and glaring daylight of the 
arena. It was a great surprise, which 
produced a great restoration of spirit, 
and some, in their admiration, which 
was so much the greater that it was 
wholly unexpected, rated brother 
Gorenflot, in their own minds, 
brother Gorenflot who had preached 
the first procession, as equal to Peter 
the Hermit, who had preached the 
first crusade. 

Unluckily, or luckily, for him who 
had created this tumultuous excite- 
ment, it was not the plan of the three 


leaders to let it run its course. One, 
therefore, of the three silent monks 
whispered a word or two into the ear 
of the chorister, whose clear and so- 
norous voice was instantly heard ring- 
ing through the long aisles, as he 
thrice cried aloud : 

u My brethren, it is time to retire. 
The session is at an end.” 

The monks arose, humming and 
murmuring, and all promising one 
another that, at the very next session, 
they would demand, unanimously and 
aloud, the procession of which brother 
Gorenflot had spoken, took their way 
to the door. Many of their number 
had approached the pulpit, in order 
that they might congratulate the 
brother alms-collector, on his descent 
from the pulpit, on his extraordinary 
success. But Chicot, reflecting that 
his voice, when heard close at hand., 
might be recognized, for he was never 
able entirely to divest himself of a 
slight Gascon accent ; and .that his 
figure, when seen close at hand, would 
display at least five or six inches, in 
vertical height, more than that of 
brother Gorenflot, who, though he 
had evidently gained stature in the 
eyes of his audience, had done so in a 
moral point of view only — Chicot, 
we say, had cast himself on his knees, 
and appeared, like Samuel, to be 
buried in a private and visionary 
interview with the spirit of the 
Lord. 

They respected his ecstasy, there- 
fore, and each walked toward the 
door in a state of agitation which 
greatly delighted Chicot under his 
cowl, in which he had cunningly ar- 
ranged two apertures for the eyes, by 
which he could discover all that was 
in progress. 

Nevertheless, Chicot’s particular 
object had been, in a great measure, 
defeated. That which had induced him 
to leave King Henry the Third, with- 
out asking his permission, was the 
sight of the Duke de Mayenne. 
That which had determined him on 
returning to Paris was the sight of 
Master Nicholas David. Chicot had 


136 


DIANA OF MERIDORj OR, 


made, as we have stated, a double 
vow of vengeance ; but he was alto- 
gether too small a companion to at- 
tack a prince of the house of Lorraine, 
or, at least, if he would do so with 
impunity, he must await his time 
patiently and long. It was a very 
different thing, however, as regarded 
Nicholas David, who was but a sim- 
ple Norman advocate, a very cunning 
blade, it is true, who had been a sol- 
dier before becoming a lawyer, and 
who, while a soldier, had been a fenc- 
ing-master. But, without being a 
fencing-master, Chicot had the repu- 
tation of handling a very good rapier. 
The great ques+ion, therefore, with 
• him was, how he should bring himself 
face to face with his enemy. Once 
face to face, like the gallant knights 
of old, Chicot purposed to put his 
life into the keeping of his good cause 
and his sword. 

Chicot was looking at the monks 
then eagerly, as they departed one by 
one, in order that, under the frocks 
and cowls, he might be sure of recog- 
nizing the tall slender form of Master 
Nicholas, when suddenly he perceived 
that every monk, as he went out, was 
subjected to an examination similar 
to that to which he had submitted on 
entering, and that, drawing from his 
pocket some token or other, he only 
received his exit when the brother 
door-keeper had inspected his token. 
Chicot fancied, at first, that he was in 
error, and remained for a few mo- 
ments doubtful of the fact, but the 
doubt was soon resolved into a cer- 
tainty, which made a cold sweat start 
from the roots of Chicot’s hair. 

Brother Gorenflot had indicated to 
him the sign-token by which he could 
get into the abbey, but had entirely 
forgotten to teach him that by aid of 
which he could get out. 


CHAPTER VII 

HOW CHICOT, FORCED TO REMAIN IN 
THE ABBEY CHURCH, SAW AND 
HEARD THINGS WHICH IT WAS VERY 
DANGEROUS TO HEAR AND SEE. 

Chicot made haste to descend from 
the pulpit, and to mingle himselt 
with the last of the monks, in order to 
find out, if possible, the token by 
which he might regain the street, and 
to provide himself with that token if 
there should yet be time. In fact, 
after joining the laggards, after hav- 
ing stretched his head above the heads 
of all present, Chicot discovered that 1 
the token for passing out was a penny 
clipped starwise. 

Our Gascon had a good many pen- 
nies in his pocket, but unfortunately, 
not one with this particular clip, 
which was almost entirely out of use, 
since the piece of money so marked 
was thereby banished for ever from 
circulation. Chicot surveyed his posi- 
tion at a glance. When he reached 
the door, if unprovided with the starred 
penny, Chicot would necessarily be 
recognized as a false brother, and im- 
mediately afterward — since it was 
clear that investigations would not 
stop there — as Master Chicot, the 
King’s fool, a station which gave him, 
it is true, many privileges in the 
Louvre and other chateaus, but which, 
in the lAbbey of Sainte-Genevieve, 
had lost, as may readily be imagined, 
many of its supposed advantages. 
Master Chicot was caught in his own 
trap. He withdrew into the shadow 
of a pillar, and ensconced him in the 
angle of a confessional, which was 
affixed to the recess, between the 
column and the wall. 

u And in addition to all,” said 
Chicot, to himself, u in destrovins 
myself, I destroy my ass of a sove- 
reign also ; whom I am idiot enough 
to love, even while I play him all 
sorts of tricks, and cover him with all 
sorts of abuse. Doubtless it would 
be much better to return to the ho^ 
telry of the Corne d’Abondance, than 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


137 


to go back to brother Gorenflot, but 
no man is tied to the performance 
of impossibilities. ” 

And while he was thus talking to 
himself, that is to say to the most in- 
terested listener in the world, so far 
as regarded the preservation of his 
secret, Chicot did his best to hide 
himself altogether between the angle 
of his confessional and the mould- 
ings of the pillar. 

Then he heard the boy-chorister 
cry out from the esplanade in front, 
u Is there no person left within? 
The gates are about to be closed.” 
No voice replied. Chicot stretched 
out his neck, and discovered that the 
chapel was actually empty ; all but 
the three monks, who were wrapped in 
their frocks more closely than before, 
who were still seated in their chairs, 
which had been conveyed to the 
middle of the choir. 

u Good !” said Chicot. u If they 
will only leave the windows open, I 
will ask no more.” 

u Let us go the rounds,” said the 
ohorister to the brother door-keeper. 

a Ventre debicheP ’ said Chicot, 
“ this is a very nice sort of chorister 
indeed. I will wear him in my heart. ” 
The brother porter lighted a taper, 
and, followed by the boy, began to 
make the round of the church. 

There was not a moment to be lost. 
The brother porter and his taper 
would evidently pass within four feet 
of Chicot, who could not fail to be 
discovered ; but Chicot turned adroit- 
ly round the pillar, so as to keep 
constantly in the shade, while the 
shade itself was turning round the 
column, and opening the confessional, 
which was closed by a catch only, he 
crept into the oblong box, the door of 
which he pulled close after him, after 
he had taken his seat in the stall. 

The brother door-keeper and the 
chorister passed by so closely, that 
Chicot could see the light of the 
taper they carried, cast upon the folds 
of his robe, through the ornamental 
gratings. 

u VYhat ! the devil !” said Chicot, 


u what can this brother porter, that 
chorister and these three monks, be 
about here ! They cannot intend to 
pass the rest of their lives here. So 
soon as they shall be gone, I will 
heap up chairs on tables, Pelion on 
Ossa, as Monsieur Ronsard would 
term it, and I will get out by the 
windows. Ah, yes, by the windows, 
indeed !” resumed Chicot, as if an- 
swering himself, u but when I shall 
have got out at the window, I shall be 
in the court, which is by no means the 
same as the street. I believe it will 
be better still to pass the night in 
the confessional ; Gorenflot’s frock is 
warm, it will be a less heathen night 
than I should have passed elsewhere, 
and I shall count on it toward my 
salvation.” 

u Extinguish the lamps,” said the 
boy-chorister, u let it be seen from 
without that the council is at an end.” 
The porter immediately smothered 
the light of the two lamps, burning in 
the nave, by means of a huge extinguish- 
er ; and the nave was of course steeped 
in primeval darkness. 

Then he put out that. of the choir. 
And the church was now illuminat- 
ed only by the wan light of .the 
wintry moon, as it glided with diffi- 
culty through the painted windows. 

Then, the lights extinguished, all 
sounds became silent also. 

The cfock struck midnight. 
u Ventre de biche /” said Chicot, 
u in a church, at midnight. If he were 
in my place, my son Henriquet 
would be nicely frightened, but lucki- 
ly for me, I am not of so timid a 
complexion. Come, Chicot, my 
friend, good evening to thee, and a 
good night’s rest.” 

And after addressing this polite 
wish to himself, Chicot began to ac 
commodate himself as well as he 
could in his confessional, shot the 
little bolt within it, that no one might 
approach him, and shut his eyes. 

His eyelids had been closed for 
perhaps ten minutes, and his spirit, 
affected by the first approaches of 
sleep, saw a crowd of indefinite 


138 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


figures floating to and fro, in that 
mysterious void which forms, as it 
were, the twilight of thought, when 
a loud blow, stricken upon a prayer 
bell, rang thrilling through the 
church, and died away at length in 
shuddering echoes. 

u Holloa !” said Chicot to himself, 
opening his eyes, and sitting bolt 
upright, u what is the meaning of all 
this?” 

At the same time, the lamp of the 
choir was re-kindled, giving out a 
dim bluish light, the first gleam of 
which fell upon the same three 
monks, still seated, the one aside the 
other in the same places, and no less 
motionless than before. 

Chicot was not exempt from a cer- 
tain degree of superstitious fear ; 
brave as he was, our Gascon was as 
men were in that age, and the age 
was that of fantastical traditions and 
terrible legends. 

He made the sign of the cross very 
gently, and murmured to himself, 

u Vade retro , Satanas /” 

Then, as the lights were not extin- 
guished at the sign of our redemption, 
which they would not have failed to 
be if they had been kindled by infer- 
nal lights ; and as the three monks 
remained in their places, in spite of 
the Vade retro , Satanas , the Gascon 
began to believe that he had to do 
only with natural lights, and if not 
with real monks, at least with men of 
real blood and bones. 

Chicot aroused himself, neverthe- 
less, shaking as he was with a double 
shudder, the one of a man suddenly 
awakened, the other of a man who is 
afraid. 

At this moment one of the flag- 
stones of the choir rose slowly, and 
Stood erect on its narrow base. A 
grey cowl showed itself above the 
edge of the black aperture, then a 
whole monk rose slowly out of the 
abyss, and set foot on the marble floor, 
while the flag-stone sank gently down 
behind him. 

At this sight, Chicot forgot the 
trial he had made, and lost all confi- 


dence in the conjuration which he had 
believed to be decisive. His hair 
stood erect on his head, and he figured 
to himself in an instant, that all the 
friars, abbots, and deans of Saint- 
Genevieve, from Optat, who died in 
533, to Pierre Boudin, the predecessor 
of the actual incumbent, were about 
to be resuscitated from their tombs, 
situate in the crypt where formgrly 
reposed the bones of Saint-G enevieve, 
and were about to raise their bony 
skulls, according to the example set 
them, through the pavements of the 
choir. 

But his doubt endured not long. 
u Brother Monsoreau,” said one of 
the three monks in the choir to him, 
who had appeared in so strange a 
manner, u is he whom we expected ar- 
rived ?” 

“ Yes, my lords,” replied he, to 
whom the question was addressed, 
u and he awaits.” 

u Open the door, and let him come 
in to us.” 

u Good !” said Chicot, u it seems 
that the comedy has two acts, and 
that I have seen only the first played. 
Two acts, that is a bad division.” 
And even while he was jesting with 
himself Chicot felt a last shudder run 
through his frame, as if a thousand 
needles had started out of the wood 
work of the stall in which he was 
sitting, and pierced his flesh with 
their keen points. 

Nevertheless, brother Monsoreau, 
descending one of the staircases which 
led from the nave to the choir, open- 
ed the bronze door which communicat- 
ed with the crypt, between the two 
staircases. 

At the same time the monk in the 
middle of the three raised his hood, 
and displayed the great scar, the 
noble sign by which the people of 
Paris recognized with such rapture 
him who passed for the hero of the 
Catholics, until such time as he should 
pass for their martyr. 

u The great Henry of Guise, in 
person, the same, whom his very im- 
becile Majesty believes to be occu- 


THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


139 


pied in the siege of La Charite. Aha ! 
now I understand. He who sits on 
his right, and who blessed the spec- 
tators, is the Cardinal of Lorraine ; and 
he who is on the left, who spoke to that 
myrmidon of a chorister, is my Lord of 
Mayenne, my friend. But where,. in 
all this, oh ! where is my friend, 
Master Nicholas David ?” 

And, indeed, as if to gratify forth- 
with all Chicot’s suppositions, the 
cowls of the monk on his right and 
the monk on the left, were uplifted 
simultaneously, discovering the intel- 
ligent head, the massive brow, and 
piercing eye of the famous cardinal, 
and the infinitely less striking profile 
of the Duke de Mayenne. 

u Ah ! I recognize thee, very un- 
holy, but very visible Trinity. Now 
let me see what you are about to do ; 
I am all eyes ! Let me hear what you 
are about to say ; I am all ears !” 

u Did you think that he would 
come ?” asked the prince with the 
scar, to the cardinal his brother, at 
the very moment when Monsieur de 
Monsoreau reached the bronze door 
of the crypt, which opened to give 
him admittance. 

u I not only believed it, but I was 
so sure of it, that I have everything 
here under my robe,” said the cardi- 
nal, u necessary to supply the place 
of the sacred ampulla.” 

And Chicot, who was near enough 
to the trinity, as he called them, to 
see and hear everything they did or 
said, perceived, by the faint gleam 
of the lamp in the choir, a box of 
richly gilt silver, with superb carvings 
in relief. 

u Ha !” said Chicot, u it seems to 
me that they are going to consecrate 
somebody. I have always had a great 
desire to see somebody consecrated. 
See how things will fall out !” 

During this time, a score of monks, 
with their heads buried in huge cowls, 
came forth by the door of the crypt, 
and arranged themselves in the nave. 
One alone, conducted by Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, climbing the staircase 
of the choir, came and took his place 


on the right of the Messieurs de Guise, 

in a stall of the choir, or rather stand- 

' « 

ing erect on the step of that stall. 

The chorister, who had now 
made his appearance again, went and 
asked the orders of the monk who sat 
on the right, and then disappeared. 

The Duke de Guise turned his 
glance over the assemblage, which was 
less numerous by five-sixths than the 
first, and which was, therefore, in all 
probability, a select assembly, and 
having satisfied himself not only that 
they were all listening, but impatient- 
ly, he addressed them in these words : 
u My friends, the time is precious, 
I shall go, therefore, without any 
hesitation, directly to the point. You 
have all heard — but a little while 
ago, for I presume you were all pre- 
sent at the first assembly — you have 
all heard, I say, in the reports of 
some of the members of the Catholic 
League, the complaints of those of 
the association, who tax one of the 
chief among us, the prince, namely, 
who stands nearest to the throne, 
with coldness, nay, even with ill-will. 
The moment has now arrived for us 
to pay to that prince all the debt of 
respect and of justice which we owe 
him. You are yourselves about to 
hear and to judge, you, who have the 
first interests of the Holy League at 
heart, whether your leaders deserve 
the reproaches of coldness and sloth 
made but now by one of the, brothers 
of the Holy League, whom we have 
not judged it advisable to admit into 
our secrets, — I mean Gorenflot.” 

At this name, pronounced by the 
Duke de Guise, in an accent which 
plainly revealed evil designs, on his 
part, against the bellicose monk of 
Saint-Genevieve, Chicot could not 
refrain from giving himself up to a 
hearty fit of laughter in his con- 
fessional — laughter, which, although 
mute, was scarce less out of place, in 
regard to the great personages who 
were the subject of it, than if it had 
been loud and unconcealed. 

u My brothers,” continued the 
duke, u the prince, whose aid has 


140 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


been promised to ns, that prince | 
ef whom we scarce hoped to obtain, 

1 will not say the presence, but the 
mere assent, is here, my brothers.” 

All eyes were now turned anxiously 
to the monk who stood on the right 
of the three princes of Lorraine, erect 
on the step of the stall. 

u Monseigneur,” said the Duke de 
Guise, addressing him, who was, for 
the moment, the object of attention 
to all eyes, u the will of God appears 
to be manifest, for it is evident, since 
you have joined us, that we are doing 
well that which we are doing. Now, 
one request, your Highness, one 
prayer. Cast back your hood that 
the faithful may see, with their own 
eyes, that you keep the promise which 
we made to them in your name ; a 
promise so flattering that they could 
not be brought to believe it.”'' 

The mysterious personage, whom 
Henry de Guise had addressed thus, 
raised his hand to his hood, and cast 
it back, and Chicot, who had expect- 
ed to see under that frock the face 
and form of some other prince of the 
house of Lorraine, started with aston- 
ishment, as he saw the head of the 
Duke d’Anjou, so pallid that it re- 
sembled a bust of marble. 

u Oh ' oh !” said Chicot. u He 
will never grow weary then of play- 
ing for a throne with the heads of 
other men.” 

u Long life to Monseigneur the 
Duke d’Anjou !” said all the by- 
standers, whereat Francis waxed 
paler than before. 

u Fear nothing, Monscigneur,” 
said Henry de Guise. u This chapel 
has impenetrable walls, and all the 
gates are closed.” 

u A fortunate precaution,” mutter- 
ed Chicot. 

u My brothers.” said the Count de 
Monsoreau, u his Highness is about to 
address a few words to this assembly.” 
u Yos! let him speak! let him 
speak !” cried many voices. 

The three princes of Lorraine turn- 
ed toward the duke and bowed low 
to him 


The Duke d’Anjou leaned back 
against the arms of his stall ; ono 
would have said that he was on the 
point of falling. 

u Messieurs,” said he, in a voice 
so hoarse and trembling, that his first 
words could hardly be distinguished, 
u Messieurs, I believe that the Lord, 
who often appears insensible and deaf 
to the things which are going on in 
this sublunary world, holds, on the 
contrary, his piercing eyes constantly 
riveted upon us, and remains thus 
seemingly mute and careless only to 
remedy, one day, at one tremendous 
blow, all those disorders which are 
caused by the madness of human pas- 
sions and ambition.” 

The commencement of the duke’s 
discourse was, like his own character, 
tolerably dark. Thus every one 
awaited until a little light should be 
shed on the meaning of his highness, 
before blaming or applauding his 
speech. 

After a moment’s pause, the duke 
began again, in a voice something 
firmer than before. 

u I also have cast my eyes over 
this world, and unable, with my fee- 
ble intellect, to compass its whole 
surface, I have rested my eyes on this 
realm of France. What have I seen, 
then, throughout the realm ? The 
holy religion of Christ shaken on its 
august foundation, and the true ser- 
vants of the Lord proscribed and 
scattered. Then I sounded the depth 
of the abyss, opened, during the last 
twenty years, by heresies which sap 
our doctrines, under the pretext of 
reaching the Lord more directly, and 
my soul, like that of the prophet, 
was inundated with grief and horror.” 

A movement of approbation ran 
through the assembly. The duke 
had manifested his sympathy with 
the sufferings of the church, which 
amounted almost to a declaration of 
hostilities against those who caused 
her to suffer. 

u It was in the midst of this pro- 
found affliction,” continued the 
prince, “ that the rumor reached me 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU 


141 


that several noble gentlemen, pious 
and friendly to the customs of their 
ancestors, were endeavoring to con- 
solidate the shattered altar. I turned 
my eyes around me, and I fancied 
that I was already present at the last 
final judgment, and that the Lord 
had separated into two bodies the 
chosen and the reprobate. On one 
side were the reprobate, and I recoiled 
in horror ; on the other were the 
elect, and I turned to cast myself into 
their arms. My brothers, I am here. ” 

* u Amen!” said Chicot, in a whisper. 

But his precaution was useless, for 
had he shouted it aloud, his voice 
would have been drowned in the tem- 
pest of bravos and applause, which 
rolled like distant thunder among the 
vaulted roofs. 

The three princes of Lorraine hav- 
ing given the signal for its commence- 
ment, suffered the tumult to die 
away by degrees ; and then the Car- 
dinal, who stood nearest to the duke, 
making another step toward him, said 
to him : 

“You have come among us of 
vour own accord, Monseigneur ?’’ 

“ Of my own free accord.” 

“ By whom were you instructed in 
the holy mystery ?” 

u By my friend, a man full of zeal 
in the cause of. religion, Mons. le 
Comte de Monsoreau.” 

“ Now,” said the Duke de Guise in 
his turn, u now that your Highness 
is one of us, be so kind, Monseigneur, 
as to tell us what you deem it your 
duty to do for the good of the Holy 
League.” 

u I account it my duty to serve the 
Catholic religion, Roman, and Apos- 
tolical, in all its exigencies,” replied 
the neophyte. 

u Ventre de biche said Chicot, 
“ here are, upon my soul, a pack of 
idiots to conceal themselves in order 
to say such things as these. Why 
do they not propose this openly to 
King Henry the Third, my illustrious 
Master ? It would all suit him to per- 
fection ? Processions, macerations, 
extirpations of heresy, as at Rome ; 


fagots, and auto-da-fes, as in Flan- 
ders and in Spain. Why, this is the 
only way to procure that he shall 
have children, this good Prince ! Cor - 
been/ ! I have a great mind to go out of 
my confessional, and present myself 
in my turn, so deeply has this dear 
Duke of Anjou affected me. Pro- 
ceed, worthy brother of his Majesty, 
noble idiot, proceed !’’ 

And the Duke d’Anjou, as if he 
had heard the kind encouragement, 
did indeed continue his harangue. 

u But,” said he, “ the interest of re- 
ligion is not the only object to which 
gentlemen should direct their aim. 
For me, I have found another.” 

“ Hola !’’ said Chicot, “ I am a 
gentleman as well as the rest. This 
interests me as well as the others, 
speak, D’Anjou, speak.” 

u Monseigneur, we are listening to 
your Highness with the most serious 
attention,” said the Cardinal. 

u And our hearts beat with hope, 
as we listen to you,” said Mons. de 
Mayenne. 

u I will explain myself, then,” said 
the Duke of Anjou, turning his anxious 
eye around, and diving into all the 
deep recesses of the chapel, as if to as- 
sure himself that no one of his words 
should fall into unfriendly ears. 

Mons. de Monsoreau comprehend- 
ed the prince’s uneasiness, and re-as- 
sured him by a smile, and a most 
significant glance of the eye. 

u Now, when a gentleman thinks of 
what he owes to his God,” continued 
the Duke d’Anjou, lowering his voice 
involuntarily, “ he thinks also of 

what he owes to his” 

“ Parbleu ! to his King,” whisper- 
ed Chicot, interrupting him in his 
confessional. 

u To his country,” said the Duke 
d’Anjou ; u and he asks himself if his 
country really enjoys all the honor 
and happiness which she is destined 
to possess. For every noble gentle- 
man derives his advantages, in the 
first place, from God, in the second, 
from the country of which he is the 
offspring. 


142 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


The assembly burst into violent 
applause. 

u Well ! well !’’ said Chicot, u and 
what of his King ? So, then, nothing 
more is to be said touching the 
poor monarch ? — 1 always thought 
that people said, like the inscription 
1 on the pyramid of Juvisy, God! the 
King ! honor ! and the ladies 

u I ask myself, then,’’ pursued the 
Duke d’ Anjou, whose cheeks were 
now becoming animated by degrees 
with a feverish glow, u I ask myself 
then, if my country enjoys that peace 
and that happiness which a country, 
so lovely and so sweet as our 
France is, in truth merits. I ask 
myself, and with deep grief, I answer 
no. 

u In fact, my brothers, the state is 
dragged hither and thither by differ- 
ent tastes and inclinations, each one 
as powerful as the others, thanks to 
the feebleness of the supreme will, 
which, forgetting that it ought to gov- 
ern all things for the general good of 
its people, remembers that truly 
royal principle only at capricious in- 
tervals, and always so perversely, that 
its most energetic acts have only 
taken place to elfect the most evil. 
It is, undoubtedly, to the fatal des- 
tiny of France, or to the blindness of 
her Prince, that this misfortune must 
be attributed. But although we are 
ignorant of the true source, or can at 
the best only suspect it, the misfor- 
tune is not, on that account, the less 
real, and I cite in proof of this, even I, 
the crimes committed in France 
against religion, and the impieties 
committed rather by certain false 
friends of the King, than by the King 
himself. 

u In either case, then, it becomes me, 
as a servant of the altar and the 
throne, to ally myself with those who 
use every effort to effect the extinction 
of the heresy, and the ruin of those per- 
fidious counsellors. This, Messieurs, 
is what I wish to do for the League, 
in connecting myself with you.” 

u Oh ! oh !” murmured Chicot, with 
eyes staring widely in surprise. u I 


see the tip of an ear sticking out, and 
it is not, as I thought at first, an ass’s 
but a fox’s ear.” 

This exordium of the Duke d’ An- 
jou, which has, perhaps, appeared a 
little long to our readers, removed as 
they are by three centuries from the 
politics of that period, was so inte- 
resting to the audience, that the most 
of them had gathered closely around 
the person of the Prince in order that 
they might not lose one syllable of 
that discourse, which was pronounced 
in a voice that became less and less 
audible, as its meaning became more 
and more distinct. 

The spectacle then was very curi- 
ous. The audience, to the number of 
twenty-five or thirty persons, with 
their cowls thrust back, suffering 
faces to be seen, noble, bold, animat- 
ed, and alive with curiosity, was 
grouped together under the lustre of 
the single lamp which now illuminat- 
ed the scene. 

Vast shadows brooded over all the 
rest of the building, which seemed, if 
I may so express myself, strangers to 
the drama which was in progress at a 
single point of it. 

In the midst of the group the face 
of the Duke d’ Anjou was visible, 
pale, with the frontal bones overhang- 
ing the deep set eyes, and when the 
mouth was opened, wearing the sinister 
and hideous grin of a death’s head. 

u Monseigneur, while thanking 
your Highness,” said the Duke d’An- 
jou, u for the words which you have 
but now pronounced, I think I ought 
to inform your Highness that you are 
surrounded by men devoted, not only 
to the principle which you have just 
expressed, but to the person of your 
Royal Highness himself, and of this 
fact, if you doubt it in the least, the 
conclusion of this sitting will con- 
vince you as energetically as it is pos- 
sible that you can imagine.” 

The Duke d’Anjou bowed, and aa 
he raised himself to an erect position 
again, cast an uneasy glance around 
the assembly. 

u Oh ! oh ! ,J murmured Chicot 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


143 


c either I anygreatly mistaken, or 
this is about to be the preamble to 
something of far greater importance 
than the tom-fooleries which have 
been said and enacted here, up to this 
time.” 

u Monseigneur,” said the cardinal, 
whom the prince’s glance had not es- 
caped, u if your Highness, by any 
chance, should still feel any appre- 
hension, the mere names of those 
who stand around should be sufficient 
in themselves to re-assure you. Here 
is Monseigneur the governor d’Aunis, 
Monseigneur d’Entragues the young- 
er, Monseigneur de Ribeirac, and 
Monseigneur de Livarot, young gen- 
tlemen with whom your Highness is 
perhaps acquainted, and who are as 
brave as they are loyal. Here are, 
moreover, Monseigneur the vidame 
de Castillon, Monseigneur the baron 
of Lusignan, Messieurs Cruce and 
Leclerc, all penetrated with the wis- 
dom of your Highness, anxious only 
to march under your guidance to 
the restoration of the church and 
throne. We shall receive, therefore, 
with gratitude the orders which you 
shall have the goodness to give to 
us. 


-n 


The Duke d’ Anjou could not dis- 
semble a movement of pride. The 
Guises, so proud that none as yet had 
ever made them bend, spoke to him 
of obedience to his bidding. 

The Duke de Mayenne resumed : 
u You are by your birth, and by 
your wisdom, Monseigneur, the natu- 
ral leader of this holy union, and we 
ought to learn from you what is the 
conduct we ought to adopt toward 
those false friends of the Kino;, of 
whom we spoke but now.” 

u Nothing can be more simple,” 
replied the prince, with that sort of 
feverish excitement which, with weak 
, takes the place of courage, 
when poisonous, parasitic plants 
grow in a field, from which one would 
otherwise derive a rich harvest, the 
dangerous weeds must be uprooted. 
The King is surrounded not by friends, 
but by courtiers, who are his ruin, 


men 
u 


and who excite a continual scandal in 
France, and in all Christendom.” 
u That is true,” said the Duke da 
Guise, in a deep hollow voice. 

u And, again, the courtiers,” in- 
terposed the cardinal, u prevent us, 
as the true friends of his Majesty, 
from coming near to his ear, as is 
our right by our offices and our rank 

to do.” 

* 

u Let us leave then,” said the 
Duke de Mayenne, abruptly, u to the 
mere vulgar Leaguers, to those of the 
first league, the care of serving God. 
In serving God, they will serve those 
who speak to them of God. We do 
our own business. These are men 
who are in our way, who brave us, 
who insult us, who continually fail in 
respect toward that prince whom we 
honor the most, and who is our lead- 
er.” 

At these words, the brow of the 
Duke d’ Anjou turned crimson. 

u Let us destroy them,” said May- 
enne again, u let us destroy, to the 
very last, this accursed brood, whom 
the king enriches with the rags and 
tatters of our fortunes, and let each 
of us cut off one of them at least from 
life. We are thirty, here ; let ua 
count them.” 

u It is wisely bethought,” said the 
Duke d’Anjou, u and you have al- 
ready achieved your task, Monseig- 
neur de Mayenne.” 

u That which is done already, 
counts for nothing.” 

u Nevertheless, you must leave us 
some of them, Monseigneur,” said 
d’Entragues. u I, for my part, will 
take charge of Quelus.” 

u And I, of Maugiron ?” said Li- 
varot. 

“ And I,” said Ribeirac, “ of 
Schomberg.” 

u Good ! good !” repeated the 
duke, “ and we have still Bussy, my 
gallant Bussy, who will take charge 
of some more.” 

u And we also, and we also !” 
cried all the Leaguers 

Monseigneur de Monsoreau ad- 
vanced. 


144 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Ah ! ah !” said Chicot, seeing 
the turn which things were taking, 
and who now laughed no longer — 
u See, the Master of the Staghounds 
is coming to claim his part of the 
quarrying of the deer.” 

But Chicot was mistaken. 
u Messieurs,” said he, stretching 
out his hand, u I call for a moment’s 
silence. We are resolute men, and 
we are not afraid to speak our 
thoughts openly to one another. We 
are intelligent men, and we are not 
to be deterred by foolish scruples. 

u Come, Messieurs, a little cour- 
age, a little frankness, a little hardi- 
hood. It is not with King Henry’s 
minions that we have to do ; it is not 
with the difficulty which we find in ap- 
proaching the person of his Majesty.” 
u What is it, then ?” muttered Chi- 
cot, gazing out with all his eyes from 
the bottom of his confessional, and 
making a hearing-trumpet, as it were, 
with his left hand, so as to convey 
every syllable to ,his ears — u come, 
make haste, I await them.” 

u That which occupies all our at- 
tention, my lords,” resumed the 
count, u is the impossibility, in front 
of which we are all brought to bay. 
It is the royalty which is given to us, 
and which is not acceptable to a 
French nobility. Litanies, despot- 
ism, impotence, orgies, and lavish 
expenditure on entertainments, which 
are the mockery of all Europe, cou- 
pled with parsimony toward all that 
regards the arts of war or peace. It 
is not ignorance, it is not weakness ; 
such conduct, Messieurs, is, in truth, 
madness.” 

A funereal silence received the 
words of the Master of the Stag- 
Hounds. The impression was so 
much the deeper, because every one 
had previously said to himself, in a 
whisper, that which the other had 
said, for the first time aloud, so that 
every one started as if at the echo 
of his own voice, and shuddered, with- 
out giving any other manifestation 
that he agreed at all points with 
the orator 


Monsieur de Monsoreau, who un- 
derstood distinctly that this silence 
came only from the excess of appro- 
bation, proceeded : 

u Ought we then to live under the 
sway of an inert, insane, and slug- 
gard King ; when Spain is lighting 
piles, when Germany is awakening 
the old heresiarchs in the gloom of 
her cloisters ; when England, in her 
inflexible policy, is limiting opinions 
and cutting off heads of dissenters ? 
All nations are at work gloriously at 
something. We have been asleep, 
Messieurs, pardon me for saying it 
before a great prince, who will per- 
haps blame my temerity, for he is 
subject to the prejudices of family ; 
Messieurs, for four years we have 
been governed, not by a King, but by 
a monk.” 

At these words, the explosion 
which had been ably prepared before- 
hand, and circumspectly repressed for 
an hour, by the circumspection of 
the chiefs, burst forth so energeti 
cally, that no one could have ima 
gined that he saw in the possessed in- 
furiates before him, the cold and 
prudent calculators of the preceding 
scene. 

u Down with the Valois f Down 
with brother Henry ! give us a gentle- 
man prince, give us a chivalric King, 
give us a tyrant, if it must be so, 
but not a cowled friar.” 

u Messieurs, Messieurs,” said the 
Duke d’ Anjou, hypocritically, u par- 
don, I implore you, my brother, who 
deceives himself, or rather who is de- 
ceived by others. Suffer me to hope, 
Messieurs, that our wise remonstran- 
ces, that the efficacious intervention 
of the power of the League, may 
recall him into the right way.” 

u Hiss ! serpent !” muttered Chi- 
cot. u Hiss !” 

u Monseigneur,” said the Duke of 
Guise, u your Highness has heard, 
perhaps a little prematurely, but you 
have heard, in one word, the sincere 
expression of the thoughts of the as- 
sociation. No, it is a question no 
longer of a League against the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


145 


Bearnais, that terror of dolts and 
cowards. It is a question no longer 
of a League to support the Holy 
Church, which can support itself well 
enough without. It is a question, 
Messieurs, of reclaiming the nobility 
of France from the lamentable posi- 
tion into which they have sunk. Too 
long, already, have we been retained 
by the respect with which your High- 
ness inspires us ; too long has that 
love^ which we know you to entertain 
toward your family, held us forcibly 
bound within the limits of dissimula- 
tion. Now all is revealed to you, 
my Lord, and your Highness is about 
to assist at the true session of the 
League, of which all that has pass- 
ed hitherto is but a mere preamble.’’ 
u What would you say, Monsieur 
the Duke ?” asked the prince, panting 
at once with anxiety and ambition. 

u Monseigneur, we are all here as- 
sembled, not as Monsieur the Grand 
Huntsman has very judiciously re- 
marked, to debate stale theoretic 
questions, but for vigorous action. 
To-day, we choose to ourselves a 
leader, capable of honoring and en- 
riching the nobility of France ; and, 
as was the custom with the ancient 
Franks when they chose themselves a 
leader, we offer a present to the chief 
whom we have chosen — ” 

All hearts beat fast and high at 
' these words, but none so fast or so 
high as that of the duke. 

Nevertheless, he had self-command 
enough to stand motionless and mute, 
his paleness only betraying the depth 
of his agitation. 

u Messieurs,” continued the duke, 
snatching up from the stall behind 
him, some article so heavy that it 
required both his hands to raise it, 
u here is the present, which, in your 
name, I deposit at the feet of the 
prince.” 

u A crown !” cried the duke, scarce 
able to sustain himself, 66 a crown, 
and for me !” 

u Long live Francis the Third !” 
shouted that compact knot of gentle- 
men, in a voice which shook the solid 

10 


roof above them, unsheathing their 
swords with the cry. 

u I, I !” stammered the duke, 
trembling between joy and terror, 
u I ? — But it is impossible ! My 
brother lives as yet ! my brother is 
the anointed of the Lord.” 

u We depose him,” said the duke, 
u awaiting until God shall sanction 
by his death the election which we 
have this instant made ; or rather 
until, weary of this inglorious reign, 
some one of his subjects shall anti- 
cipate, by poison or the poniard, the 
justice of the Lord.” 

u Gentlemen,” said the duke, yet 
more weakly than before, u Gentle- 
men !” 

u Monseigneur,” said the cardinal 
in his turn, u to the noble scruple 
which your Highness has just 
expressed, here is our answer. Hen- 
ry the Third was the anointed of 
the Lord, but we have deposed him. 
He is no longer the chosen of God, 
and you are about to be so, Monsei- 
gneur. This is a temple as venerable 
as that of Rheims, for here have re- 
posed the reliques of Saint-Gene- 
vieve, the patron Saint of Paris ; 
here was inhumed the body of Clovis, 
the first Christian King. Well, 
Monseigneur, before the statue of 
the true founder of the French Mon- 
archy, I, one of the princes of the 
church, one, who without any insane 
ambition may aspire to be one day 
the head of it, I say to you, Monsei- 
gneur, that I have here, in order to 
supply the place of the Holy Chrism, 
a sacred oil, sent by Pope Gregory 
the Xlllth. Monseigneur, nominate 
your future Archbishop of Rheims ; 
nominate your constable ; and in one 
moment, you shall be consecrated 
King, and it is your brother Henry, 
who, if he do not surrender the 
throne to you, shall be considered an 
usurper. Boy, light the torches of 
the altar.” 

At the same instant the chorister, 
who had evidently been awaiting the ut- 
terance of that order, issued from the 
sacristy, with a taper in his hand, and 


146 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


immediately fifty flambeaux were glit- | 
tering around the high altar, and 
adown the choir. 

There was seen on the altar a mitre 
gleaming with superabundant jewels, 
and a great sword enwrought with 
fleurs-de-lis. It was the mitre of the 
archbishop, it was the sword of the 
constable. 

In an instant, from the darkness at 
the farther end of the church, which 
the illumination of the choir was un- 
able to disperse, the organ awoke, 
and the strain Veni Creator pealed 
tinder the high arches. 

This sort of stage trick, which had 
been contrived by the Prince of Lor- 
raine, and which was unexpected even 
by the Duke d’ Anjou, produced a 
striking effect on the bystanders. 
The brave became enthusiastic, and 
the timid brave. 

The Duke d’ Anjou raised his 
head, and with a firmer stride, and a 
steadier arm than could have been look- 
ed for, walked straight to the altar, took 
the mitre with his left hand, and the 
sword with his right, and returning to 
the duke and the cardinal who were 
awaiting the double honor, he placed 
the mitre on the head of the cardinal, 
and girded the sword on the thigh of 
the duke. 

Loud applause hailed that decisive 
action, which was the less expected, 
that all present were acquainted with 
the weak and vacillating character of 
the duke. 

u Messieurs,” said the duke to the 
spectators, u give your names to 
Monsieur the duke de Mayenne, 
the Grand-Master of France, and the 
day on which I shall be king, you 
shall all be knights of the order.” 

The shouts of applause were re- 
doubled, and one by one all the spec- 
tators came and gave their names to 
Monsieur de Mayenne. 

u MordieuV* said Chicot, u what 
a fine chance of getting the blue rib- 
and. I shall never have such another, 
and to think only that I must deprive 
myself of it ! ” 

u Now to the altar, Sire,” said the 


| Cardinal de Guise, u Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, Captain Colonel, Mes- 
sieurs de Ribeirac and D’Entragues, 
Captains, Monsieur de Livarot, lieu- 
tenant of the Guards, take the places 
in the choir to which the rank now 
conferred entitles you.” 

Each of those who had been sum- 
moned proceeded to take the place 
which would have been assigned to 
him by etiquette in a true ceremony 
of consecration. 

u Messieurs,” said the duke, ad- 
dressing all the rest of the assembly, 
u you will each of you address a re- 
quest to me, and I shall endeavor to 
leave no one of you discontented.” 
During this time, the cardinal had 
passed behind the tabernacle, and 
had arrayed himself in pontifical at- 
tire. Ere long he re-appeared with the 
sacred ampulla, which he deposited 
on the altar. 

Then he made a sign to the chorister, 
who brought the book of the Gospels, 
and the cross. The cardinal took them 
both, placed the cross on the book of 
the Gospels, and extended them to 
the Duke d’ Anjou, who laid his hand 
on them. 

u In the presence of God !” said 
the duke, u I promise my people that 
I will maintain and honor our holy 
religion, as it behoves the very 
Christian king, the eldest son of the 
church, to do, and so may God and 
his holy evangelists ®aid me.” 

u Amen !” responded all the as- 
sistants with a single voice. 

u Amen !” replied a sort of echo, 
which appeared to issue from the 
depths of the church. 

The Duke of Guise, performing, as 
we have stated, the functions of con- 
stable, ascended the three steps lead- 
ing to the altar, and standing in front 
of the tabernacle, laid down his 
sword, which was blessed by the car- 
dinal. 

The cardinal then unsheathed it, 
and presented it to the king, who 
took it by the hilt. 

u Sire,’ ’said he u take this sword, 
which is given to you with the bene- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


147 


diction of the Lord, in order that by 
its aid, and the strength of the Holy 
Spirit, you may be enabled to resist 
your enemies, to protect and defend 
the Holy Church, and the kingdom 
which is entrusted to your charge. 
Take this sword, in one word, that 
by its aid you may execute justice, 
you may protect widows and orphans, 
you may repair all disorders, and 
covering yourself with glory by the 
practice of all virtues, you may de- 
serve to reign with him, whose image 
on this earth you are, and who reigns 
with the Father and the Holy Ghost, 
in the eternity of eternities.” 

The duke lowered the sword until 
its point touched the earth, and after 
having offered it to God, restored it 
to the Duke de Guise. 

The chorister then brought a cushion 
which he laid at the feet of the 
Duked’Anjou, who kneeled down on 
it. 

Then the cardinal opened the small 
silver gilt box, and with the point of 
a golden needle, drew out a particle of 
sacred oil, which he spread out on the 
patine. 

The patine in his left hand, he ut- 
tered two orisons over the duke. 

Then, taking the holy chrism in 
his thumb, he traced the figure of a 
cross on the crown of the duke’s 
head, saying — 

u Ungo te in regem de oleo sancti- 
ficato , in nomine Patris , et Filii 
Spiritus Sancti ,” and the chorister, 
almost at the same instant*, wiped 
away the unction with a gold embroid- 
ered kerchief. 

Then the cardinal took the crown 
in both his hands and lowered it over 
the duke’s head, but without placing 
it thereon. The Duke de Guise, 
and the Duke de Mayenne, imme- 
diately approached and supported 
the crown, one on the right hand, 
and the other on the left. 

And the cardinal now holding it 
with his left hand only, and blessing 
the prince with his right, exclaimed : 

u God crowns thee with the crown | 
of glory and of justice.” I 


Then placing it on the head of the 
prince, 

u Receive this crown,” he said, u in 
the name of the Father, the Son, and 
the Holv Ghost.” 

Wan and shuddering, the Duke 
d’Anjou felt the crown placed on his 
head, and instinctively raised hig 
hand thereto. 

The tinkling bell of the chorister 
resounded through the church, and all 
the bystanders bowed their heads. 

But instantly, they raised their 
heads again, and shouted, brandish- 
ing their swords, u Long live the 
King, Francis the Third!” 

u Sire,” said the cardinal to the 
Duke d’Anjou, u from this day forth 
you reign in France, for you are con- 
secrated by Pope Gregory the Thir- 
teenth himself, whose representative 
I am.” 

u Ventre de biche /” said Chicot, 
u what a misfortune that I have not 
got the king’s evil !” 

u Messieurs,” said the Duke d’An- 
jou, raising his head proudly and ma- 
jestically', u I never shall forget the 
names of the thirty gentlemen, who 
have been the first to judge me wor- 
thy to reign over them, and now 
adieu ! Messieurs — may God have you 
in his grand and holy keeping !” 

The cardinal then bowed, as did 
likewise the Dukes de Guise, and 
de Mayenne. But Chicot, who had 
a side view of them, perceived that as 
the Duke de Mayenne was leading the 
new king back to his place, the two 
princes of Lorraine exchanged an 
ironical smile. 

u Hola !” said the Gascon, u what 
does this mean now, and of what use 
is it to play, if all the wtHd are 
cheating one another ?” 

During this time, the Duke d’Anjou 
had returned to the staircase leading 
to the crypt, and very soon disappear- 
ed in the darkness of the subterranean 
church, while, one after the other, all 
the assistants followed him, with the 
exception of the three Brothers, who 
| retired into the sacristy, while the 
1 Brother doorkeeper was extinguish- 


US 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ing the lights of the choir and the 
altar. 

The chorister closed the door of the 
crypt behind them, and the church 
remained lighted only by that lamp, 
which, alone and inextinguishable, 
seemed a symbol unknown to the 
profane, and having a tongue and a 
meaning only to those initiated into 
some mysterious rite. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ifoW CHICOT, THINKING THAT HE 
WAS GOING THROUGH A COURSE IN 
HISTORY, WENT THROUGH A COURSE 
IN GENEALOGY. 

Chicot arose in his confessional, in 
order to straighten his cramped legs. 
’He had now every reason for believ- 
ing that this session was the last. 
And as it was now nearly two o’clock 
in the morning, he began to be in 
haste to make his dispositions for the 
night. 

But to his great astonishment, so 
soon as they heard the key grate in 
the lock of the crypt-door, the three 
princes of Lorraine came forth from 
the sacristy ; but this time they had 
thrown off their friars’ gowns, and 
were clad in th<#r usual attire. 

At the same time, when he saw 
them re-appear, the boy chorister 
burst into a laugh so fresh and joy- 
ous, that the contagion reached Chi- 
cot, and he, too, began to laugh, he 
knew not wherefore. The Duke de 
Mayenne advanced quickly to the 
staircase. 

u Do not laugh so noisily, sister,” 
said he, u they are scarcely out of the 
doors, and may hear you.” 

u His sister ?” said Chicot, who 
was advancing from surprise to sur- 
prise. u Is it possible, then, that 
this little monk is a woman ?” 

In fact, at this moment, the choris- 
ter threw back Lis hood, ani display- 


ed the most intellectual and charm- 
ing female head that ever Leonardo 
de Vinci transferred to canvass ; he 
who painted the Joconde. 

The eyes were black, beaming with 
lovely mischief, which, when their pu- 
pils were dilated, extended their 
obon disks to such a size, that they 
became actually terrible from their 
deep seriousness. 

The mouth was small, rosy, and 
finely cut ; the nose chiselled on the 
most severe classic model ; the chin 
was rounded finely, completing the 
perfect oval of a face, which, be- 
ing somewhat pale, gave additional 
force to the two exquisitely pencil- 
led eyebrows, which stood out 
from it like a double arch of ebony. 
It was the sister of Messieurs de 
Guise, Madame de Montpensier, that 
dangerous siren, who had adroitly 
dissembled beneath the thick robe of 
a monk, the imperfection which was 
so often charged against her, of ont 
shoulder somewhat higher than the 
other, and a slight turn in her right 
leg, which caused her to limp slight- 

!y- 

Thanks to these imperfections, the 
soul of a demon had taken its lodg- 
ing in that body to which nature had 
given the head of an angel. Chicot 
recognized her at once, having seen 
her twenty times at the court of 
queen Louisa of Vaudremont,her cou- 
sin ; and a great mystery was reveal- 
ed to him by her presence, and. that 
of her three brothers, who had per- 
sisted in remaining after all the rest 
of the company had retired. 

u Ah ! my good brother cardinal,” 
said the duchess, in a fit of frantic 
glee; u how holy a man you make, 
and how beautifully you talk about 
the Lord ! For one moment you 
frightened me, and I thought that 
you were making a serious matter of 
it, and he who suffered himself to be 
greased and crowned.” 

u No matter,” said the duke, u we 
have gained that which we desired, 
and Francis cannot now get himself 
out of the affair. The Monsoreau 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


149 


*ho must certainly have had some 
secret interest in this, has forced mat- 
ters on to such a point, that we are 
sure that he cannot abandon us, as 
he did La Mole and Coconnas, half- 
way to the scaffold.’’ 

u Oh !” said Mayenne, u that is a 
road on which it is no easy matter to 
make princes of our race travel. And 
it is, after all, a shorter step from 
the Louvre to the abbey of Saint-Gene- 
vieve, than it is from the Hotel de 
Ville to the Place de Greve.” 

Chicot now clearly understood that 
they had been making a mockery of 
the Duke d’Anjou, and, as he detest- 
ed that prince, he would very willing- 
ly have embraced all the Guises, with 
the exception of Mayenne, in return 
for which exception he would have 
embraced Madame de Montpensier 
twice over, as a reward for this mys- 
tification. 

u Let us return to business, Mes- 
sieurs,” said the cardinal. u All the 
doors are, I trust, well secured.” 
u Oh ! I will be answerable for 
that.’’ said the duchess, u moreover, 
I will go and see now.” 

u Do not so,” said the duke, u you 
must be very fatigued already, my 
dear little chorister.” 

u Not I, on my word ! It was a 
great deal too funny.” 

u Mayenne, did you say that he is 
here ?” asked the duke. 

“ I do.” 

u I did not discover him.” 
u I believe you. He is well con- 
cealed.” 

u Where, I pray you?” 
u In a confessional.” 

These words rang in the ears of Chi- 
cot like all the hundred thousands of 
trumpets heard in the apoeatypse. 

u Who is hidden in a confessional ?” 
he began to ask himself, fidgetting in 
his box ; u ventre de biche ! 1 see no 
one but myself!” 

u Then he has heard and seen 

everything that has passed said the 

duke in the tone of a questioner. 

u What matters that ? he is our 

man, is he not r” 

0 


u Bring him to me, Mayenne,” 
said the duke. 

Mayenne came down one of the 
staircases leading to the choir, ap- 
peared to be taking his direction, and 
then advanced in a right line toward 
the confessional occupied by our friend 
Chicot. 

Chicot was a brave man, but now 
his teeth chattered with terror, and 
the cold perspiration began to drip 
down from his brow upon his hands. 

u Ah ! is it so r” said he to him-* 
self, endeavoring to disengage his 
sword from the folds of his gown ; u I 
will not die, however, in this box, 
like a knave. Let me go and meet 
death, at all events, and if there be 
an opportunity, ventre de biche! let 
me kill him at least before I die my- 
self.” 

And in order to put this courageous 
intent into execution, Chicot, who 
had already disentangled his sword- 
hilt, had laid his hand on the latch 
of the door, and was on the point of 
casting it open, when the voice of 
Madame de Montpensier sounded : 
u Not in that one, Mayenne,” said 
she, u not in that one. In the other 
to the left, at the further end.” 
u Ah ! very well,” said the duke 
who had already stretched out his 
hand toward Chicot’s confessional, 
and who, at his sister’s call, turned 
away abruptly toward the opposite 
confessional. 

a Ouf!” said the Gascon, uttering a 
sigh which Gorenflot might well have 
envied ; “it was time that he should 
turn ! But who, the devil is in the 
other confessional over the way.” 
u Come forth, Maitre David !” 
cried Mayenne, u we are alone.” 
u Here am I, Monseigneur,” said a 
man, coming forth from the confes- 
sional. 

u Good !” said the Gascon, u you 
were missing from the entertainment, 
Master Nicholas ; I was looking for 
you on all sides, and here, at length, 
I have found you, at the very moment 
when I ceased to expect you.” 

u You have heard and seen every- 


150 


DIANA OP MER1DOR; OR, 


thing have you not ?” asked the 
Duke de Guise. 

a I have not lost one word of what 
has passed, and I will not miss a par- 
ticle of the details, 1 will be answer- 
able for that, Monseigneur.” 

u You can report the whole, then, 
to the envoy of his Holiness Pope 
Gregory the Thirteenth, can you not ?” 
asked the prince with the scar. 

u All, without missing one word.” 
u Now my brother, De Mayenne, 
tells me that you have done wonders 
for us. Let us see, what have you 
there ?” 

The cardinal and the duchess both 
drew near in great curiosity, so that 
the three princes and the sister form- 
ed bur a single group. 

Standing in the full glare of the 
lamp-light, Nicholas David was with- 
in three feet of them. 

u I have done what I promised, 
Monseigneur,” said Nicholas David; 
u that is to say, I have found the 
means of placing you, without a con- 
test, on the throne of France.” 
u Them, too !” cried Chicot. u Ah ! 
well ! well ! everybody is going to be 
the king of France, now-a-days, it 
seems to me. The best luck to the 
last comers.” 

It will be seen, at once, that the 
brave Chicot had recovered his gaiety. 
This gaiety was born of three cir- 
cumstances. 

First of all, he had escaped an 
imminent peril, in a most unexpected 
manner ; afterward, he had discovered 
a good conspiracy ; to conclude, in 
this good conspiracy, he had found a 
method of destroying his two great 
enemies, the Duke de Mayenne, and 
the Advocate, Nicholas David. 

u Dear Gorenflot,” he muttered, 
when all these ideas had been so«me- 
what logically arranged in his head, 
u what a supper 1 will give you to- 
morrow in return for the loan of your 
gown !” 

u And if the usurpation should be 
too flagrant, let us abstain from that 
method,” said Henry de Guise. U I 
do not choose to have all the kings 


of Christendom, who hold their seats 
by divine right, upon my back.’’ 
u I had considered that scruple of 
my lord,” said the advocate, bowing 
low to the duke, and casting a con- 
fident glance over the triumvirate. 
u I am not able in the art of fencing 
alone, as my enemies may have re- 
ported, in order to injure me, and 
deprive me of your confidence. 
Brought up in theological and legal 
studies, I have consulted, as a good 
casuist and learned jurist should, the 
annals and decrees which give weight 
to my assertion as to our right of 
succession to the throne. To gain 
legitimacy is to gain all, and I have 
discovered, Monseigneurs, that you 
are the legitimate heirs, and that the 
Valois are usurpers, and a mere para- 
sitic branch.” 

The confidence with which Nicho- 
las David pronounced this little ex- 
ordium gave great and lively joy tG 
Madame de Montpensier, gave great 
and lively curiosity to the cardinal 
and to the Duke de Mayenne, and 
almost removed the wrinkles from the 
brow of the Duke de Guise. 

u It is difficult, nevertheless,” said 
he, u to prove that the house of Lor- 
raine, which is. notwithstanding, verv 
illustrious, takes the precedence of 
the house of Valois,” 

u That is proved, nevertheless,” 
Monseigneur,” said Maitre Nicholas, 
tucking up his gown, in order to draw 
out a parchment from the pocket of 
his ample breeches, and discovering 
by the movement the hilt of a long 
rapier. 

The duke took the parchment from 
the hands of Nicholas David. 

u What is this ?” he asked of him 
u The genealogical tree of the 
house of Lorraine.” 

u The stock of which is ?” 
u Charlemagne, Monseigneur.” 
u Charlemagne !” cried the three 
brothers, with an expression of incre- 
dulity, which, nevertherless, was not 
free from a certain air of satisfac- 
tion ; u it is impossible. The first 
Duke of Lorraine was a contemporary 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAIJ. 


15i 


of Charlemagne ; hut his name was 
Rainier, and he was no connexion 
of the great emperor.” 

44 Wait a while, Monseigneur,” 
said Nicholas. 44 You will under- 
stand rapidly enough that I have not 
sought one of those questions, which 
is cut short by a simple denial, and 
which the first herald sets at naught. 
That which is necessary for you, is a 
good cause, which will occupy both 
the parliament and the people for a 
long time, during which you can se- 
duce, not the people, for they are' 
yours already, but the parliament. 
Now, look you, Monseigneur, this is 
it : Rainier, the first Duke of Lor- 
raine, a contemporary of Charlemagne. 

44 Guilbert, his son, a contemporary 
of Louis the Debonnaire. 

44 Henry, the son of Guilbert, a 
contemporary of Charles the Bald.” 
44 But,” said the Duke of Guise — 
44 A moment’s patience, Monsei- 
gneur,” said the advocate, 44 and here 
we are. Listen, now, Bona” — 

44 Yes,” said the duke, “Bona, the 
daughter of Ricin, second son of 
Rainier.” 

44 Well,” answered the advocate, 

4 married to whom ?” 

44 Bona, do you mean ?” 

44 Yes.” * . , 

44 To Charles of Lorraine, son of 
Louis the Fourth, King of France.” 
44 To Charles of Lorraine, son of 
Louis the Fourth, King of France,” 
repeated David. 44 Now add to that, 

4 and brother of Lothaire, robbed of 
the crown of France by the usurper 
Hugues Capet, supplanting Louis the 
Fifth.’” 

44 Hola !” exclaimed the Duke of 
Mayenne and the Cardinal of Lor- 
raine, in a single breath. 

44 Continue,” said the scarred 
prince ; 44 there is a gleam of light 
in this.” 

44 Now, Charles of Lorraine inherit- 
ed from Lothaire, in default of his 
issue. Now, Lothaire ’s race has Ions: 
been dead. Now, Messieurs, you 
are the sole and true heirs of the 
throne of France.” 


44 Mordieu /” said Chicot. 44 The 
animal is even more venomous than I 
supposed him to be.” 

44 What do you say, my brother, to 
all this asked De Mayenne and 
the cardinal, simultaneously. 

44 I say that, unluckily, there exists 
a law in France which is called the 
Salic law, which knocks all our pre- 
tensions on the head, decidedly.” 

44 That is the very point which I 
expected you to make, Monseigneur,” 
said David, with all the triumph of 
gratified ambition. 44 What, I pray 
you, is the first instance of the Salic 
law ?” 

44 The accession of Philip of Va- 
lois to the throne of France, to the 
prejudice of Edward of England.” 

44 What was the date of that 
event ?” 

The Duke began to ransack his 
memory. 

44 1318,” said the Cardinal de 
Guise, without a moment’s hesitation. 

44 That is to say, 341 years after 
the usurpation of Hugues Capet, 
240 years after the extinction of the 
race of Lothaire. In one word, your 
ancestry had claims to the throne 
two hundred and fifty years previous 
to the invention of the Salic law. 
Now, everybody knows that the law 
has no retrospective action.” 

44 You are a clever man, Maitre 
Nicholas David,” said the scarred 
prince, with a sort of admiration, 
not altogether unmingled with tri- 
umph. 

44 It is very ingenious,” said the 
cardinal. 

44 It is very fine,” said Mayenne. 

44 It is admirable, ’’said the duchess. 
44 Here am I, a princess royal. I 
will have no one for my husband but 
an emperor of Germany.” 

4 4 Heavens ! Good Lord,” cried 
Cliicct, 44 thou knowest that I have 
never uttered but one prayer to 
thee. Nec nos inducas in tentatio- 
neni , et libera nos ab advocatibus .” 
The Duke de Guise alone remained 
mute and thoughtful, in the middle 
of that burst of general admiration. 


152 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u And then to say that such sub- 
terfuges are necessary to a man of my 
stature,” he murmured. u To think 
that, before obeying, the people look 
to parchments like this, instead of 
reading the nobility of a man in the 
lightning of his eye, or the flash of 
his sword ?” 

u You are right. Henry, ten times 
ri^ht, and if men were content with 
the character stamped on the face, 
you would bo a king among ^Ings, for 
other princes are but a mote when in 
your presence. But the essential thing 
for the ascent of a throne, as Master 
Nicholas David has said, is a good 
law-suit ; and when we shall have 
ascended it, it is needful also that the 
blazon of your house should not ap- 
pear too insignificant in comparison 
with the blazons suspended over other 
European thrones.” 

u This genealogy then is good,” 
continued Henry of Guise, with a 
sigh, “ and here are the two hundred 
crowns of gold which my brother of 
Mayenne requested of me for you, 
Maitre Nicholas David.” 

u And here are two hundred crowns 
more,” said the cardinal to the advo- 
cate, whose eyes gleamed with plea- 
sure, as he stowed away the gold in 
his ample pocket ; u for the new mis- 
sion which we have entrusted to your 
charge.” 

u Speak, Monseigneur,” said the 
advocate, u I am at the orders of your 
eminence, soul and body.” 

u We cannot entrust you with the 
duty of carrying this genealogy, to 
which it is necessary that he should 
give his assent, to Pope Gregory the 
Thirteenth, yourself in person. You 
are too slight a companion that the 
doors of the Vatican should fly open 
to you.” - 

u Alas,” said Nicholas David, u I 
have a high head, it is true, but I am 
of humble birth. Alas! why was not 
I a simple gentleman, at least !” 
u Will you hold your tongue, 
hog !” muttered Chicot.” 

u But you are notone,” continued 
the cardinal, “ and it is a pity that 


you are not. We are, therefore, com- 
pelled to entrust this duty to Pierre 
de Gondy.” 

“ Permit me to say one word, bro- 
ther,” said the duchess, becoming se- 
rious again. u The Gondy ’s are 
persons of intellect and spirit, it is 
true, but they are persons on whom 
we have no hold, and from whom we 
have no recourse. Their ambition 
alone renders them in the least re- 
sponsible to us ; and they may find 
wherewith to satisfy their ambition, 
as well from King Henry, as from the 
house of Guise.” 

u My sister is right, Louis,” said 
the Duke de Mayenne, with his usual 
brutality, u and we cannot trust our- 
selves in the hands of Pierre de Gon- 
dy, as we can in those of Nicholas 
David, who is our man, and whom we 
can hang up whenever we like it.” 

This frank rejoinder of the duke, 
discharged as it were point blank in- 
to the face of the advocate, produced 
the strangest effect imaginable on the 
unhappy lawyer. He burst into a 
fit of convulsive laughter, which de- 
noted the greatest terror. 

u My brother Charles is joking,” 
said Henry to the lawyer, who was 
now growing very pale ; u and we 
well ^now that you are our faithful 
servant ; you have proved it in many a 
critical affair.” 

u And especially in mine,” thought 
Chicot, as he shook his fist at hi? 
enemy, or to speak more correctly, at 
his two enemies. 

u Be of good cheer, Charles, be of 
good cheer, Catharine ; all my meas- 
ures are taken beforehand. Pierre de 
Gondy will carry this genealogy to 
Rome, but will carry it confounded 
and blended with other papers, and 
without knowing what he is carrying. 
The pope will approve or disapprove, 
♦without knowing anything of his ap- 
probation or disapprobation. In a 
word Gondy, still ignorant what he is 
carrying, will return to France with 
that genealogy approved or disapprov- 
ed. You, Nicholas David, you shall 
set forth almost the same moment 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


153 


with him, and you will await him at 
Chalons, at Lyons, or at Avignon, 
accoiding to the instruction which you 
will receive from us, to stop at one 
or the other of these three cities. 
Thus it is you who will hold the real 
secret of the enterprise. You see 
then, that you are, in fact, our sole 
confidential agent.” 

David bowed low. 

u Thou knowest on what condition, 
too, dear friend,” said Chicot, grin- 
ning in his sleeve. u On that of be- 
ing hanged if thou shouldest make 
one false step. But fear nothing. I 
swear to thee, by Saint-Genevieve, here 
present, in plaster, wood, or marble, 
perhaps even in bone, that thou art 
at this instant standing midway be- 
tween two gibbets ; but that which is 
the nearest, is that, dear friend, which 
I am preparing for thee.” 

The three brothers pressed each the 
other’s hand, and embraced their sis- 
ter the duchess, who had just brought 
them their three monks’ gowns, which 
had been left in the sacristy. Then, 
after having assisted them to put on 
those protecting frocks, she slouched 
her cowl over her eyes, walked before 
them so far as to the porch, at which 
the brother porter awaited them ; and 
by which they passed out, followed by 
Nichol as David, with the golden 
crowns jingling in his pocket, at every 
step he took. 

Behind them, the brother porter 
shot the bolts, and returning into the 
body of the church, extinguished the 
single lamp which hung in the choir, 
and thus renewed that mysterious hor- 
ror, which had several times caused 
thehair to bristle on thehead of Chicot. 

Theft in the darkness, the noise of 
the monk’s sandals upon the flag- 
stones of the pavement was heard 
receding ; ‘it grew weaker and weak- 
er, and at last disappeared altoge- 
ther. 

Five minutes, which appeared very 
long to Chicot, elapsed without any 
sound or light intervening to break 
upon that silence or that gloom. 


u Good !” said the Gascon, u it 
seems that this time, at least, every- 
thing is finished, that the three acts 
are played out, and that the actors 
have departed. Let me endeavor to 
follow them ; I have had quite enough 
of this comedy for one night at 
least.” 

And Chicot, who had given up his 
intention of passing the night in the 
church until day-break, since he had 
discovered the existence of moveable 
tomb-stones and inhabited confess- 
ionals, lifted the latch gently, opened 
the door with every precaution against 
noise, and extended his foot beyond 
his box. 

During the perambulations of the 
chorister, Chicot had seen in one cor- 
ner of the church, a ladder, which 
was intended, apparently, for use in 
cleaning the lattices of colored glass. 
With extended hands, and feet slow- 
ly and carefully advanced, he reached 
the corner without making any noise, 
laid his hands on the ladder, and 
taking* his direction as well as he 
could through the gloom, reached the 
window and raised the ladder against 
the sill. 

By the moon-light, Chicot readily 
perceived that he had not been mistak- 
en in his apprehensions. The window 
opened into the cemetery of the con- 
vent, and that cemetery adjoined 
the Rue Bordelle. 

Chicot opened the window, placed 
himself astride on the ledge, and 
drawing up the ladder, transferred it 
from the inner to the outer side. 

Once descended, he concealed the 
ladder in a yew hedge, planted 
along the base of the wall ; glided 
from tomb to tomb, until he reached ' 
the last cloister which alone separat- 
ed him from the street, and which he 
easily climbed with no further mishap 
than the dislodging of a few stones, 
which fell before him into the street. 

Once there, Chicot paused for a 
moment, in order to draw a long, long 
breath. He had extricated himself, 
at the expense of a few trivial scratches, 


t54 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


4 


from the wasps’ nest in which he was 
well aware that he had been playing 
for his life. 

Then when he felt that the air play- 
ed fully through his lungs, he took 
his course toward the Rue Saint- 
Jacques, never stopping until he reach- 
ed the hostelry of the Corne d’Abon- 
dance, at the door of which he 
knocked without hesitation or delay. 

Maitre Claude Bonhomet came and 
opened his door in person. He was 
a man who well knew that people pay 
well when they give trouble, and who 
reckoned rather on his extraordinary, 
than on his ordinary gains. 

He recognized Chicot at the first 
glance, although Chicot had gone out 
dressed as a gentleman, and returned 
dressed as a monk. 

u Ah ! is it you, my gentleman ?” 
said he, u you are welcome home.” 
Chicot gave him a crown. 
u And brother Gorenflot ?” he 
asked. 

A broad smile mantled over the 
face of the landlord ; he stepped for- 
ward to the door of the closet, push- 
ed it open, and said, u See for your- 
self.” 

Brother Gorenflot was snoring pre- 
cisely in the same place in which 
Chicot had left him. 

u Ventre de biche , my respectable 
friend,” said the Gascon, u thou hast 
had, without at all suspecting it, an 
exquisite night-mare 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW MONSIEUR AND MADAME DE 
SAINT-LUC TRAVELLED SIDE BY 
SIDE, AND WERE OVERTAKEN BY A 
TRAVELLING COMPANION. 

The following morning, nearly at the 
same hour in which Gorenflot awoke, 
warmly wrapped in his frock, our 
reader, had lie been voyaging on the 
road from Paris to Angers, might 


have seen between Chartres and No- 
gent, two cavaliers, a gentleman and 
his page, whose horses travelled peace- 
ably side by side, occasionally rub- 
bing their noses together, and talking 
to one another by whinnyings and 
neighings, like honest animals, which, 
being deprived of the gift of speech, 
have no other method of communicat- 
ing their ideas. 

The cavaliers had arrived the pre- 
ceding evening, at nearly the same 
hour, in Chartres, on foaming horses, 
their mouths bathed in blood. One 
of their two coursers had fallen, more- 
over, in the Place of the Cathedral, 
and as it was at the very time when all 
true believers were going to rest, it 
was a spectacle not devoid of interest 
to the burghers of Chartres to see 
this magnificent courser expiring of 
fatigue, while its owners seemed to 
take no more heed of it than if it 
had been the merest garron. 

Some of them had observed — the 
burghers of Chartres have always 
been of a most inquiring turn of 
mind — some of them, we say, had ob- 
served that the taller of the two cav- 
aliers had slipped a crown in the 
hand of an honest lad, who led him, 
with his companion, to a neighboring 
inn ; and that half* an hour later, the 
two travellers had passed out by the 
postern door of the same inn, open- 
ing upon the plain behind, mounted 
on fresh horses, and having their 
cheeks illuminated by that healthful 
glow which says so much in praise 
of the good draught of hot spiced 
wine which one has swallowed. 

Once in the countrv, which was 
still bare and leafless, although it was 
already adorned by those bluish tints 
which are the precursors of the ver- 
dure of spring, the taller of the two 
cavaliers drew nearer to his shorter 
comrade, and said to him, extending 
his arms, 

u Dear little wife, kiss me quietly ; 
for at this moment we have nothing 
more to fear.” 

Then, Madame de Saint-Luc, for 
it was indeed she, leaned forward, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


155 


graciously, opening the thick mantle in 
which she was wrapped, and casting 
her two arms over the young man’s 
shoulders, without withdrawing for 
an instant the ardent gaze which she 
had fixed upon his eyes, gave him the 
long and tender kiss which he had 
asked. 

The consequence of the assurance 
which Monsieur de Saint-Luc had 
given his wife, and perhaps in some 
degree of the kiss which Madame de 
Saint-Luc had given her husband, was, 
that they stopped for the remainder 
of that day, at a little hostelry in 
the village of Courville, situate only 
twelve miles distant from Chartres, 
which, by its lonely situation, its 
double doors, and its multitude of 
other advantages, offered to the two 
wedded lovers every pledge for their 
perfect security. 

There they remained all that day, 
and all that night, very mysteriously 
concealed in their little chamber, 
where, after having caused themselves 
to be furnished with breakfast, they 
had shut themselves up, desiring the 
host, in consequence of the long jour- 
ney they had taken, and the great fa- 
tigue which they felt in consequence 
thereof, on no account to disturb them 
before the following morning, at day- 
break — instructions to which the 
landlord had paid’attention the most 
implicit. 

It was on the morning of the se- 
cond day, therefore, that we have 
overtaken Monsieur and Madame 
de Saint-Luc, travelling on the road 
from Chartres to Nogent. 

Now on this day, as they were even 
more tranquilly minded than on the 
day before, they travelled no longer in 
the guise of fugitives ; no longer even 
in the guise of lovers ; but rather as 
scholars escaped from school, who turn 
round on their way every moment, 
each to make the other admire him, 
perched on some little hillock, like an 
equestrian statue, ransacking the first 
mosses of the spring, gathering the ear- 
liest flowers, sentinels of spring-time 
which pierce the snow, ere it has yet 


’ disappeared, and taking infinite delight 
in the reflection of a ray of light from 
the glistening wing-coverts of a pass- 
ing duck, or from the limping gait of 
a hare, across the grassy plain. 

u Morbleu /” cried Saint-Luc, on 
a sudden. u How pleasant it is to be 
free! Were you ever free, before, 
Joan ?” 

u I !” replied the young woman, 
with a joyous intonation of voice. 
u Never, and it is the first time I 
have ever enjoyed as much air, and 
as much space, as I desired. My 
father was suspicious, and my mother 
was the most domestic woman in the 
world. I never went abroad without 
a governess, two lady’s maids, and a 
tall lacquey ; so that I never remem- 
ber having run across a lawn, since, 
as a gay and laughing child, I bound- 
ed through the great woods of Meri- 
dor, with my dear Diana, challeng- 
ing her to run races : and racing 
through the green alleys, until 
we could scarcely ever find one ano- 
ther. Then we would stop all trem- 
bling, at the noise made by some 
fallow deer, some hind, or some roe, 
which, terrified itself by us, would dart 
out of its lair, leaving us to inquire 
of ourselves where we were ; not 
without something of a shudder, in 
the midst of those vast and silent 
solitudes. But you, my well-beloved 
Saint-Luc, you at least have been 
free ?” 

u I, free ?” 

u Undoubtedly, you who are a man.” 

u Ah ! that is likely indeed — never 
I. Educated about the person of the 
Duke d’ Anjou ; carried by him into 
Poland ; brought back by him to Pa- 
ris • condemned never to leave him, by 
that perpetual rule of etiquette, pur- 
sued whenever I left him fora moment, 
bv that lamentable voice, crvin<? out 
incessantly, c Saint-Luc, my friend, I 
am bored, come and be bored with 
me.’ Free, yes, very likely indeed ; 
and then that great corset which con- 
fined my stomach, and that great 
starched ruff, which flayed my neck, 
and that hair frizzled with gum, till 


156 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


they became sticky from dampness, 
and so were covered with dirt ; and 
then that little cap nailed to my head 
with pins. Oh ! no, no, my good 
Joan, I believe, if anything, that I 
was less free than you, I do believe 
it. Therefore, you see how I enjoy 
my liberty now. God be praised ; it 
is a sweet thing ; and how can people 
deprive themselves of it, when they 
can do otherwise ?” 

u And if they should catch us 
again,” asked his young wife, casting 
her eyes behind, with an uneasy 
glance along the road, u if they should 
put us into the Bastille ?” 

u If they should put us there to- 
gether, my little Joan, it will be but 
half an evil. For it seems to me 
that yesterday we were shut up al- 
most as closely as if we had been 
prisoners of state, and yet, for all 
that, I don’t think that we were so 
very much bored.” 

u Saint-Luc, do not you believe 
it,” said Joan with a smile full of 
gaiety and mischief. u If they catch 

us again, I do not believe that thev 

© > >/ 

will shut us up together.” 

And the charming woman flushed 
at the thought how much sense she 
had intended to convey, while she 
had said so little. 

u Therefore, we must hide our- 
selves well,” said Saint-Luc. 

u Oh ! fear nothing on that head,” 
said Joan, u on that score we have 
nothing to fear, and we shall be 
thoroughly well hidden. If you but 
knew Meridor, with its great oaks re- 
sembling columns of that vast temple 
of which heaven is the dome, and its 
interminable coppices, and its lazy 
rivers, which rise during the summer 
under arcades of living verdure, and 
during the winter under beds of dead 
leaves ; then its great pools, its 
boundless wheat fields, its pastures of 
flowers, its wide opening lawns, its 
little turrets whence pour incessantly 
thousands of pigeons, fluttering and 
humming like bees about a hive, and 
then — and then — for this is not all, 
Saint-Luc — in the middle of all this, 


the queen of this little kingdom, the 
enchantress of those gardens of Ar- 
mida, the beautiful, the good, the in- 
comparable Diana, a heart of dia- 
mond, in a shrine of gold. Thou 
wilt love her, Saint-Luc.” 

“ I do love her even now. Has 
she not loved thee ?” 

u Oh ! I am sure that she loves me 
yet, and that she will love me always. 
It is not Diana, who changes caprici- 
ously her friendship. Picture to your- 
self, therefore, the happy life which 
you are about to lead in that nest of 
bright flowers, and green mosses, 
which will come out so freshly in the 
gay spring-time ! Diana has taken 
the governance of her father’s house, 
in lieu of the old baron. We have 
nothing therefore which should alarm 
us. He is a warrior of the era of 
King Francis the First, and is now 
weak and inoffensive, as he was once 
brave and courageous ; who has but 
one recollection of the past, the vic- 
tor at Marignan, the vanquished at 
Pavia — but one love for the present, 
one hope for the future, his well be- 
loved Diana. We may live in Meri- 
dor without his ever so much as per- 
ceiving us, or if he do discover us, 
what then ? We shall be perfectly safe 
on condition of allowing him to say 
that his Diana is the most beautiful 
girl in the world, and that King 
Francis the First is the greatest Cap- 
tain of all ages.” 

O 

u It will be charming,” said Saint- 
Luc. “ But I foresee great quarrels.” 
u Quarrels ! between whom ?” 
u Between the baron and me.” 
u About what ? about King Fran- 
cis?” 

u Oh ! no, I will give up his first 
Captain to him, but about the most 
beautiful girl in the world.” 

u I am no longer to be taken into 
account, since I am thy wife.” 

u Ah ! that is true,” said Saint- 
Luc. 

u Picture to yourself now, my well 
beloved,” Joan proceeded, “ such a 
life as this. As soon as morning 

o 

dawns, away into the woods from the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


157 


door of the little summer-house which 
she will assign to us. I know that 
summer-house right well, two little 
towers connected by a main building 
erected in the ( time of Louis the 
Twelfth, a style of architecture which 
will delight you, you who so dearly 
love lace work and flowers. And 
from the windows — from the windows 
a calm and almost melancholy view 
over great woods rising one above the 
other, until they are lost to sight in 
the blue distance, and alleys in which 
one may see some graceful hind or 
timid roe pricking its slender ears at 
the slightest sound. Again, in the 
opposite direction, a long perspective 
over wide open plains, all gilded by 
the pleasant sunshine, over white 
walled and red roofed villages, over 
the tranquil Loire mirroring the 
sunny skies, and covered with glanc- 
ing boats ; and yet again, at three 
leagues’ distance, a lake with a barque 
hidden in the woods, our horses, our 
dogs, with which we chase the deer in 
the wide woodlands, while the old 
baron, ignorant of his guests, listens 
the distant baying of the hounds, and 
cries, 4 Hear you not that, Diana ? 
would not one say that Astrea and 
Phlegethon were hunting ?’ 

44 4 And if they be hunting, let 
them hunt, good father,’ Diana 
will reply.’’ 

44 Oh ! let us speed, Joan,” said 
Saint-Luc, 44 I would that we were 
even now at Meridor.” 

And both gave the spur to their 
steeds, which then devoured space 
over some eight or nine miles of road, 
and then stopped again on a sudden, 
as if to give their riders opportunity 
to resume a conversation interrupted, 
or to make up for a kiss ill-bestowed. 

, Thus did they make their journey 
good to Mans from Chartres, where, 
nearly free now from all apprehension, 
the lovers tarried one whole day, and 
then on the day following that which 
had been, as it were, a happy halt on 
a happy road, they plunged them- 
selves, with a confident hope of reach- 
ing Meridor on that very evening, 


into the sandy wastes and forests 
which extended at that period from 
Gracelard to Ecomoy. 

Once there, Saint-Luc considered 
that he should be beyond the reach of 
any danger, knowing as he did the 
humor of King Henry, now boiling 
with superfluous energy, now steeped 
in lethargic indolence— of King Hen- 
ry, who, according to the humor in 
which he should chance to be at the 
moment of hearing of their flight, 
would either send out twenty couri- 
ers, and a hundred guards in pursuit, 
with orders to bring them back dead 
or living ; or would content himself 
with heaving a deep sigh, stretching 
his arms out of bed an inch or two 
farther than common, and murmur- 
ing, 4 Oh ! traitor Saint-Luc, where- 
fore did I not know you sooner ?’ 

Now, as the fugitives had been 
overtaken by no courier, and had 
been pursued, so far as they knew, by 
no guards, the chances were that, in- 
stead of being in one of his boiling 
humors, King Henry the Third had 
been in one of his lazy fits. 

This was the very thing which 
Saint-Luc had been saying, as he cast 
a glance behind him over the long 
line of road, on which there was not 
the slightest sign to be discovered of 
any pursuer. 

44 Good !” he thought, 44 the tem- 
pest must have fallen, then, with all 
its weight on that poor Chicot, who, 
for all that he is a fool, and, per- 
haps I should rather say, for that he 
is a fool, gave me such excellent ad- 
vice. Well, well; I shall escape, I 
suppose, for some anagram more or 
less witty.” 

And Saint-Luc thought of a terri- 
ble anagram which Chicot had made 
on him in the day of his prosperity. 

Suddenly Saint-Luc felt his wife’s 
hand laid upon his arm. 

He shuddered. It was not a caress. 

44 What is the matter, then?” he 
asked. 

44 Look !” said Joan. 

Saint-Luc turned round, and saw on 
the horizon a horseman, who was fol- 


158 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


lowing the same road with themselves, 
and who appeared to be pressing his 
horse with all his might. 

This horseman was on the very 
summit of a hill which the road tra- 
versed, and stood forth vigorously de- 
fined against the white morning sky, 
and, by one of those effects of perspec- 
tive which our readers have undoubt- 
edly observed, he appeared larger I 
than nature. 

This coincidence struck Saint-Luc 
as an evil omen, whether it was from 
the previous disposition of his mind, 
to which this sudden reality appeared 
to have given the lie on a given point, 
er whether, in reality, and in spite of 
the calmness which he affected, he 
feared some capricious alteration in 
King Henry’s mood. 

u Yes,’’ he said, turning pale in 
spite of himself; u there is a horse- 
man yonder.” 

u Let us fly,” exclaimed Joan, set- 
ting spurs to her horse. 

u No, no,” cried Saint-Luc, when 
all the apprehension that he felt 
failed to deprive him of his habitual 
self-possession. u That horseman, 
so far as I can see, is alone, and we 
must not seem to fly from a single 
man. Let us leave room for him to 
pass, and, when he shall have passed, 
let us proceed on our way.” 
u But if he should stop ?’’ 
u If he should stop, we will then 
see what we have to do, and will act 
accordinglv.” 

u You are right,” said Joan, u and 
I was in the wrong to be alarmed, 
when I have my Saint-Luc here in 
order to defend me.” 

u Never mind. Let us fly at all 
events,” said Saint-Luc, casting ano- 
ter look tow r ard the stranger, who, on 
perceiving them, had put his horse to 
a gallop ; u for there is a feather on 
that hat, and a ruff under it, which 
disturbs me not a* little.” 

u Oh ! mon Dieu ! How can a fea- 
ther and a ruff disturb you?” cried 
Joan to her husband, as he caught 
her horse by the bridle-rein, and en- 
deavored to draw it aside in the wood. 


u Because the feather is of a color, 
and the ruff of a cut, both of which 
are exceedingly new, and very muhh 
the fashion at court. Now these 
feathers are such that they would cost 
too much for the dyeing, and the ruffs 
are so delicate, that they would give 
too much trouble in starching to the 
gentlemen of Mans, that I should be- 
lieve, for a moment, that he, with 
whom we have to do, should be a 
compatriot of those fine fat chickens 
which Chicot esteems so highly. 
Spur, Joan, spur. This horseman 
'.ooks to me very like an ambassador 
from the King, my august master.” 
u Let us spur,” said the young 
wife, trembling like a leaf at the mere 
idea of being separated from her hus- 
band. 

But it was a thing far more easy to 
say than to do. The firs were plant- 
ed so thickly that they stood in 
ranks, making a solid wall of branches. 
Moreover the horses plunged in their 
gallop almost breast-deep into the 
heavy sand. 

During this time the cavalier came 
down upon them rapidly, and the 
thunder of his gallop reached their 
ears rolling adown the mountain side. 

u It is us, surely, whom he is pur- 
suing.” 

u True, lord!” cried the young 
wife. 

u By my soul ! if it be we,” said 
Saint-Luc, pulling up his horse ; u if 
it be we whom he is pursuing, let us 
see what he would with us. For if 
he dismounts he must overtake us at 
all events.” 

u He has pulled up,” said Joan. 
u And he dismounts,’’ said Saint- 
Luc. u He enters the wood, ah ! by 
my faith ! were he the devil in person 
he shall be met withal.” 

“Hold!” cried Joan, restraining 
her husband ; “ hold ! methinks he is 
calling to us.” 

And, in truth, the stranger, having 
fastened his horse to one of the fir 
trees in the skirt of the wood, came 
into the thicket, crying aloud : 
u Ho ! my good gentleman ! Ho 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


159 


my good gentleman ! Do not fly. 
A thousand devils! I am bringing 
you back something that you have 
lost.” 

u What does he say ?” asked the 
countess. 

“ Upon my word !” said Saint-Luc, 
li he says that we have lost some- 
thing.” 

u Ho ! Monsieur!” repeated the 
unknown. u You, little Monsieur, 
I mean. You have forgotten your 
bracelet in the Hostelry de Courville. 
What the devil ! a woman’s picture 
should not be lost so lightly, especially 
the picture of that respectable Ma- 
dame de Cosse'. For the sake of that, 
dear mamma, do not force me to run 
after you thus.” 

u It seems to me that I know that 
voice,” said Saint-Luc. 

u And then he speaks to me of my 
mother.” 

u Have you, then, lost such a brace- 
let, my darling ?” 

“ Ah ! Mordieu . ye& I only dis- 
covered it this morning. I could not 
remember where I had left it.” 

u Good heavens ! it is Bussy,” said 
Saint-Luc, suddenly. 

u The Count de Bussy ?” asked 
Joan, in some emotion. u What, our 
friend ?” 

“ Why certainly, our friend,” cried 
Saint-Luc, running forward as anx- 
iously to meet the other gentleman, 
as a moment before he had been en- 
deavoring to avoid him. 

u Saint-Luc ! then I was not mis- 
taken !” cried the gay and sonorous 
voice of De Bussy, as he came leap- 
ing through the bushes, and in an 
instant was beside the wedded lovers. 

u Good-day to you, Madame,” he 
continued, laughing heartily, and of- 
fering the bracelet, which she had 
left at the hostelry of Courville, to 
the. countess. 

u Have you come to arrest us on 
the part of the King, Monsieur de 
Bussy?” asked Joan, with a smile. 

u I ? upon my honor, no ! I am 
not sufficiently the friend of his Ma- 
jesty that he should charge me with 


his confidential missions. No, I 
found your bracelet at Courville ; 
that proved to me that you were 
ahead of me on this road. There- 
fore, I. pricked my horse merrily 
along. I perceived you ; I suspected 
that it was you, and, without desir- 
ing it, I gave chase to you. Forgive 
me.” 

u You tell me, therefore,” said 
Saint-Luc, with a lingering touch of 
suspicion in his mind, u that it is 
chance alone which made you follow 
the same road we had taken.” 

u Chance alone,” replied Bussy. 
u And now that I have met you, I 
will say Providence.” 

And all the remnant of doubt that 
was yet uneffaced in the mind of 
Saint-Luc vanished before the bril- 
liant eye and frank smile of the no- 
ble gentleman. 

u So you are on your travels?” 
said Joan. 

u I am on my travels,” said Bussy, 
remounting his horse. 
u But not like us ?” 
u Unfortunately, not.” 
u Not because you are disgraced 
by the King, I mean.” 

u Upon my honor, it wants but 
little of it.” 

„ u And you are going ?” 

“ I am going towards Angers ; and 
you ?” 

u We also are going towards An- 
gers.” 

u Yes, I understand you ; Brissao 
is some thirty miles hence, between 
Angers and Saumur. You are going 
to seek a place of refuge in one of 
your paternal manors, like doves pur- 
sued by hawks. It is charming ; and 
I should envy your happiness, were 
not envy an odious fault.” 

u Ah ! Monsieur de Bussy,” said 
Joan, with a glance full of gratitude, 
u get married, and you will be as 
happy as we. It is a very easy thing, 

I assure you, to be happy when one is 
in love.” 

And she looked at Saint-Luc as 
she spoke, as if to call him to bear 
witness to the fact. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR • OR, 


ino 

44 Madame,” said De Bussy, 44 I 
am distrustful of these happinesses. 
All the world has not the opportuni- 
ty of getting married cum privilegio 
regis, as you have done.” 

44 Come, come. You, the man 
loved of all.” 

44 When one is loved of all, it is 
much the same as to be loved of none,” 
said Bussy, with a smile. 

44 Well,” said Joan, with a glance 
of intelligence toward her husband, 
44 let me marry you. That will, in 
the first place, give peace of mind to 
a good many jealous husbands whom 
I know ; and then, again, I will pro- 
mise that you shall meet that exist- 
ence, the happiness of which you 
deny.” 

44 I do not deny the existence of 
happiness, Madame. I only deny 
that it exists for nre,” said Bussy, 
with a sigh yet deeper than before. 

u Will you let me marry you to 
whom I will ?” repeated Madame de 
Saint-Luc. 

44 If you will marry me according 
to my taste, yes ; if according to 
your taste, no.” 

44 You say that like a man who is 
determined to remain a bachelor.” 

44 Perhaps so ” 

44 Are you in love, then, with some 
woman whom you cannot marry ?” 

44 Count, for pity’s _ sake,” said 
Bussy, 44 request Madame de Saint- 
Luc not to plunge a thousand dag- 
gers into my heart.” 

44 Come, come, Bussy, take care, 
or you will set me to believe that it 
is with my wife that you are in love.” 

44 In that case, you will admit, at 
least, that I am a lover full of deli- 
cacy, and one of whom husbands 
have the slightest cause in the world 
to be jealous.” 

44 Ah ! yes. That is true,” said 
Saint-Luc, as he recalled it to mind 
that it was Bussy who had brought 
his wife to the Louvre to see him. 
44 But it matters not for that ; con- 
fess that your heart is lost somewhere 
or other.” 

44 I confess it,” said Bussy 


44 By a love or a caprice ?” asked 
Joan. 

44 By a passion, Madame.” 

44 I will cure you.” 

44 I think not.” 

44 I will marry you to a wife.” 

44 I doubt it. 

44 And I will render you as happy 
as you desire to be.” 

44 Alas ! Madame, my sole happi- 
ness now is to be miserable.” 

44 I am very obstinate, I warn you,” 
said Joan. 

44 And I also,” replied Bussy. 

44 Count, you will surrender.” 

44 Look you, Madame, let us travel 
on as good friends ; let us get out of 
this sandy barren, if you please, and 
make the best of our way to that 
pretty little village, which is shining 
far away yonder in the sunbeams, in 
order to pass our evening there.” 

44 That one or some other.” 

44 It is all one to me. I have but 
little preference in the matter.” 

44 You intend to accompany us 
then ?” * 

44 So far as I am going I do, at least 
unless you find any objection to it.” 
44 None. Quite the reverse, in- 
deed. But do a better thing, and 
come with us whither we are going.” 
44 And whither are you going ?” 

44 To the Chateau de Meridor.” 
The blood rose to the countenance 
of Bussy, and in the next instant 
rushed back refluent to his heart. 
He even became so pale, that it was 
all over with his secret, if at that 
moment Joan had not looked toward 
her husband. 

Bussv had, therefore, time to re- 
cover himself before the two lovers, 
rather than spouses, had ceased talk- 
ing to one another with their eyes, 
and his plan was to repay the young 
wife with mischief for mischief, only 
that his idea of mischief was to pre- 
serve the most absolute silence as to 
his intentions. 

44 To the Chateau of Meridor, M •- 
dame ?” said he, when he had re- 
covered strength enough to repeat t e 
name, 44 what is that, I beg of yoa 


THE LADY OF MONSORE ACT. 


44 It is the estate of one of my good 
friends,” replied Joan. 

u Of one of your good friends,” 
continued Bussy, u and of one who is 
living cn her estate ?” 

44 Undoubtedly,” said Madame de 
Saint-Luc, who was entirely ignorant 
of the events which had passed in the 
last two months. 44 Have you, then, 
never hear speak of the Baron of 
Meridor one of the richest of all the 
barons of Poitou, and — ” 

4 And ?*’ repeated Bussy, seeing 
that Joan paused and hesitated. 

4 4 And of his daughter. Diana de 
Meridor, the loveliest daughter baron 
ever had to boast of?” 

44 No, Madame, never,” replied 
Bussy, half choked by the violence 
of his emotion. 

And in a whisper, the noble gentle- 
man, while Joan was looking at her 
husband with a singular expression, 
the noble gentleman, we say, asked 
himself by what singular happiness 
it was that he met on the same road, 
all unexpectedly, and by no plan or 
forethought, persons who should talk 
with him of Diana de Meridor, and 
echo thus the only thought which 
found a dwelling in his heart. 

Was it a surprise ? it was not 
probable. Was it a stratagem ? that 
was almost impossible. Saint-Luc 
had already left Paris, when he had 
entered the house of Madame de Mon- 
soreau, and when he had learned that 
Madame de Monsoreau was called 
Diana of Meridor. 

44 And this chateau — is it far off,” 
asked Bussy of Madame de Saint- 
Luc. 

44 About one and twenty miles, and 
I will offer you a wager that it shall 
be there, and not at your little village 
chining in the sun, in which, by the 
way, as you must have observed but 
nQW, I have very little confidence, 
that you will pass the night. You 
will come, will you not ?” 

44 Yes, Madame.” 

44 Come,” said Joan, 44 that is one 
step at least which you have taken 

11 


ic: 

toward the happiness which I would 
propose to you.” 

Bussy bowed, and continued to ride 
along by the side of the young 
spouses, who, thanks to the kindness 
they owed him, looked on him vein, 
graciously. At length, Bussy, who 
had yet many things to learn, vod 
tured to ask a few questions. *t 
was the privilege of his position, and 
he appeared determined to take tiu 
risk of it. 

44 And this Baron of Meridor, a 
whom you were speaking, this richest 
baron of Poitou, what sort of man is 
he?” 

44 A perfect gentleman, a hero ci' 
ancient days, a knight, who, had he 
lived in the days of Ling Arthur, ud 
questionably would have obtained :?, 
place at the round-table.” 

44 And to whom,” inquired Bus^y, 
restraining the muscles of his face, 
and stifling the emotion of his voice, 
44 to whom has he given his daughter 
in marriage ?” 

44 Given his daughter in mar- 
riage ?” 

44 That is what I asked.” 

44 Diana married ?” 

44 What is there extraordinary in 
that ?” 

44 Nothing. But Diana is not 
married. Certainly, had she been 
married, I should have been the first 
person informed of it.” 

The heart of Bussy throbbed high, 
and a painful sigh forced its way 
through his throat, half suffocating 
him as it passed. ^ 

44 Then,” he inquired, 44 Made- 
moiselle de Meridor is now at the 
chateau, with her father ?” 

44 We hope so, greatly,” replied 
Saint-Luc, giving some emphasis to 
his reply, in order to let his wife see 
that he had comprehended her, and 
that he shared her wishes, and was 
willing to participate in her schemes 
There was a silence for a moment, 
during which each one of the party 
followed out his own train of thought 
44 Ah !” exclaimed Joan, suddenly 


* 

162 DIANA OF MERIDOR. 


raising herself in her stirrups. u There 
are the turrets of the chateau. See, 
see ; look, Monsieur de Bussy ; there, 
in the middle of those great leafless 
woods, which, within a month, will 
be all green and beautiful ; there 
you can see the slated roof.” 
u Oh ! yes, certainly,” said Bussy, 
with a degree of emotion that aston- 
ished even his own brave neart. which 
had, up to this time, remained some- 
what wild and untamea. ; 

u So, that is the chateau of Meri-i 

dor.” 1 


And by a natural re-action of his 
thoughts, at the aspect of this coun- 
try so lovely and so rich, even at that 
saddest period of the year, at the as- 
pect of that fine old seignorial castle, 
he recalled to mind the poor impri- 
soned lady, entombed amid the fogs 
of Paris, and in the stifling dens of 
the Rue Saint-Antome 

This time ne sighed again, but it 
was not now altogether a sigh of sor- 
tcw By dint of promising him hap- 
paness, Madame de Saint-Luc had 
almost led him to hope. 


j 


n 


t 


/ 


THE 


DIANA OF MEEJDOB ; 

OR, 

LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


PART III. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BEREAVED BARON. 

Madame de Saint-Luc was not mis- 
taken ; two hours afterwards they 
were in front of the castle of Meri- 
dor. 

After the last words which were ex- 
changed between the travellers, and 
which we have repeated, Bussy had 
asked himself whether he was not 
bound to communicate to his good 
friends, who had just unbosomed 
themselves to him, the adventure 
which held Diana aloof from Meri- 
dor. But, had he once entered upon 
the path of explanation, he must 
have revealed, not only that which all 
the world was destined soon to know, 
but that also which Bussy alone knew, 
and would not have revealed for 
worlds to any person. He recoiled, 
therefore, from a confession which 
must naturally induce too many in- 
terpretations, and too many ques- 
tions. 

Bussy was, moreover, desirous of 
entering Meridor in the condition of 
a man completely unknown. He de- 
sired, without any preparation, to see 
M. de Meridor, to hear him speak 
of Monsieur de Monsoreau and of 
the Duke d’ Anjou. He was desirous, 
not of convincing himself that Di- 
ana’s narrative was sincere, for he did 
not for one instant suspect that such | 


an angel of purity could be guilty of 
falsehood ; but that she had not been 
herself deceived, on any point ; and 
that her narrative, to which he had 
listened under the spell of an interest 
so powerful, had been a true narra- 
tive of events. 

Bussy preserved, as it will be easy 
to discover, two sentiments which 
upheld the man of true superiority in 
his preeminent position, even in the 
midst of the seductions and bewilder- 
ment of passion. Those two senti- 
ments were circumspection as regards 
strangers, and the deepest veneration 
for the object beloved. 

Therefore it was, that Madame de 
Saint-Luc, deceived, in spite of her 
female quick-sightedness, by the em- 
pire which Bussy had preserved over 
himself, remained persuaded that the 
young man had now heard the name 
of Diana for the first time, and that 
her name awakening neither memory 
nor hope within him, Be would natu- 
rally expect to find at Meridor some 
provincial damsel, exceedingly awk- 
ward, and very much embarrassed in 
the presence of guests. 

In consequence of this, she was 
preparing herself for the enjoyment 
of much mirth at his surprise. 

One thing, however, astonished her 
greatly. It was, that the warder 
having sounded his horn to announce 
the arrival of visitors, Diana did not 
run out upon the drawbridge ; for 


164 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


she well remembered that it was a I 
signal at which Diana always ran for- 
ward. 

But, in lieu of Diana, an old man 
was seen to advance from the princi- 
pal porch of the castle, bowed with 
extreme age, and painfully support- 
ing himself on a staff. He was clad 
in a green velvet surcoat, trimmed 
with the fur of foxes ; and at his belt 
there hung a silver whistle beside a 
small bunch of keys. 

The evening air fanned the long 
white hair on his forehead — white as 
the last snows of a wintry storm. 

He crossed the drawbridge, follow- 
ed by two tall boar hounds of the 
Pomeranian breed, which stalked 
along behind him at a slow pace, 
with their heads bowed, neither out- 
stripping the other by a single step. 

When the old man had reached the 
parapet, he cried out in a weak, faint 
voice : 

u Who is there ? and who does a 
poor old man the honor to visit him ? 

“ It is 1 — I, Seigneur Augustin,” 
said the merry voice of the young 
lady ; for so it was she always named 
him, in order to distinguish him from 
his younger brother William, who 
had died scarcely three years before. 

But the baron, instead of replying 
by the joyous exclamation which 
Joan had expected to hear issue from 
his mouth, lifted his head slowly, and 
fixing his lacklustre eyes on the trav- 
ellers, said, 

“You? I do not see — whom do 
you mean by I 

“ Oh ! Mon Dieu !” exclaimed 
Joan, “ do you not recognize me ? 
Ah ! it is true ! My disguise” — 

“ Excuse me,” said the old man, 
“ but I can hardly see anything. 
The eyes of old men are not made for 
weeping, and when they do weep, the 
tears burn them.” 

“ Ah ! My dear baron,” said the 
young lady, u I see now in truth, 
that your sight must be failing, since 
otherwise you would have recognized 
me evesn in my boy’s clothes Must 
I the* tell you my name ?’ 


“ Assuredly, you must,” said the 
old man, “ since I can hardly see 
you.” 

“Well, I am going to surprise 
you, Seigneur Augustin; I am Ma 
dame de Saint-Luc.” 

“ Saint-Luc !” said the old man. 
I do not know the name.” 

“ But my maiden name,” cried the 
young wife, “ my maiden name was 
Joan de Cosse Brissac.” 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu !” cried the old 
man, endeavoring to open the gate 
with his trembling hands. “ Ah ! 
mon Dieu !” 

Joan, who understood nothing of 
this strange reception, so different 
from anything which she had expect- 
ed, and which she attributed to the 
extreme age of the old man, and the 
failure of his faculties, seeing that she 
was at length recognized, leaped down 
from her horse, ran up and threw her- 
self into his arms, according to her 
custom. But as she embraced the old 
baron, she felt that his cheeks were 
wet. He was weeping. 

“ It is with joy,” she thought with- 
in herself, “ his heart is as young as 
ever.” 

“ Come,” said the old man, after 
he had embraced her tenderly. And 
as if he had not perceived her two 
companions, the old man began to 
walk back toward the castle at his 
equal and measured pace, followed 
ever at the same distance by his two 
dogs, which had not taken time even 
to smell or gaze at the new visitors. 

The chateau wore an aspect of tht? 
deepest gloom ; all the shutters were 
closed. It might have been taken 
for an enormous tomb. The servants 
who were in sight, passing this way 
and that, were clad in black. Saint- 
Luc darted a troubled glance toward 
j his wife, as if to inquire whether it 
was thus that she expected to find the 
chateau. Joan understood him, and 
being all anxiety herself to escape 
from this perplexity, she approached 
the baron, and taking him by the 
| hand, 

j “ Where,” she said, “ is Diana 3 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


155 


Can it be that by any mischance she 
is absent from home ?” 

The old man stopped short, as if a 
thunderbolt had stricken him, and 
looking at the young lady with an 
expression like that of terror in his 
eyes : 

u Diana !” he exclaimed ; and sud- 
denly, at the name, the two dogs, 
lifting their heads, one on each side 
of their master, uttered a lamentable 
howl. 

Bussy could not prevent himself 
from shuddering, and turning about 
quickly, gazed upon Saint-Luc. 
Saint-Luc also stopped short, not 
knowing whether to advance farther, 
or to retire. 

u Diana !” repeated the old man, 
as if he had required the time which 
had elapsed in order to comprehend 
the question which had been put to 
him. u But do you not know, 
then ?” — 

u Know what ?” cried Joan. u Oh ! 
what has happened — clasping her 
hands, and almost overcome by her 
emotion. 

u Diana is dead !” cried the old 
man, lifting his hands, with a des- 
pairing attitude, to heaven, and suf- 
fering a torrent of tears to escape his 
eyes. 

And he let himself sink down upon 
the upper step of the terraced flight 
of stairs, which they had just ascend- 
ed, and hid his face in his hands, 
rocking his body to and fro, as if to 
banish the memory of that fatal event, 
which dwelt for ever in his mind, 
turning his life to torture. 

u Dead !” cried Joan, stricken with 
dismay, and turning as pale as if she 
had been herself a ghost. 

u Dead !” said Saint-Luc, with an 
expression of tender sympathy for the 
old man. 

u Dead !” muttered Bussy to him- 
self. u He has then suffered him also to 
believe that she was dead. Ah ! poor 
old man ! Now one day thou wilt 
love me !” 

u Dead ! dead !” repeated the baron, 
u they have killed her for me.” 


u Ah, my dear lord,” cried Joan, 
who, after the terrible blow which she 
had received, had found at length 
that one resource which so often saves 
the weak heart of woman from break- 
ing, in a flood of tears. And she 
burst into a fit of sobbing, and de- 
luged the old man’s face with tears, 
while she wound her arms about hia 
neck with almost filial tenderness. 

The old lord arose from the ground, 
feeble and faltering. 

u It matters not,” said he, u though 
desolate and void, the house is still 
hospitable. Enter, I pray you.” 
Joan took the old man’s arm, and 
crossing the peristyle, the old guard- 
room, now converted into a dining-- 
room, entered the drawing-room. A 
servant, whose agitated features de- 
noted the tender interest which he 
felt for his master, walked before him, 
opening the doors ; Bussy and Saint- 
Luc followed after. 

When they reached the drawing- 
room, the old man, who was still 
leaning on Joan’s arm, seated himself, 
or rather let himself sink down into 
an elbow chair of carved oak. 

The valet then threw open a window 
in order to admit the fresh air, and 
then, without leaving the room, re 
tired into a corner. 

Joan did not dare to break the si- 
lence which ensued. She dreaded 
awakening the recent wounds of the 
old man -to a fresh sense of pain, by 
asking any questions ; and yet, like 
all young and happy persons, she 
could hardly bring herself to regard 
the misfortune which was thus an- 
nounced to her as real. There is a 
period of life at which it is almost im- 
possible to sound the abyss of death, 
because one scarcely can believe in 
the possibility of death. 

It was the baron who anticipated 
her wishes, being the first to resume 
conversation. 

u You have told me,” he said, 
u that you were married, my dear 
Joan ; is Monsieur” — and he pointed 
to Bussy as he spoke, u is Monsieur 
the*, your husband ?” 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


106 

u No, Seigneur Augustin,” replied 
Joan. 44 This is Monsieur de Saint- 
Luc.” 

Monsieur de Saint-Luc bowed low ; 
lower to the misfortunes of the father, 
than he would have done to the vene- 
rable years of the aged man. The 
other saluted him with an expression 
of paternal warmth, nay, even forced 
a smile ; then his inexpressive eyes 
wandered toward Bussy : 

44 And is Monsieur,” he asked, 
44 your brother, your husband’s bro- 
ther, or one of your kinsmen ?” 

44 No, my dear baron,” replied 
Joan. 44 Monsieur is neither my 
brother, nor any kinsman, but simply 
our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, 
Comte de Bussy d’Amboise, gentle- 
man to the Duke d’ Anjou.” 

At these words, the old man raised 
himself erect as suddenly as if he 
had been moved by a spring, darted 
a terrible glance at Bussy, and as if 
exhausted by the utterance of that 
mute insult, fell back in his arm-chair, 
heaving a piteous sigh. 

44 What does this mean ?” asked 
Joan. 

44 Does the baron know you, then, 
Seigneur de Bussy ?” asked Saint- 

Luc. 

44 It is the first time I ever have had 
the honor of seeing Monsieur le 
Baron de Meridor,” said Bussy very 
quietly, although he was the only 
person who understood the effect 
which the name of the Duke of An- 
jou had produced on the old man.” 

44 Ah ! you are a gentleman of 
Monsieur the Duke d’Anjou,” cried 
the baron, 44 you are a gentleman of 
that monster, of that demon, and you 
dare to confess it, and yet more, you 
have the audacity to present yourself 
in my house !” 

44 Is he mad ?” asked Saint-Luc 
of his wife, in a whisper, gazing with 
astonished eyes at the baron, as he 
spoke. 

44 Grief must have deranged his 
intellect,” replied Joan, with an 
expression of terror in her eyes. 

Monsieur de Meridor had pro- 


nounced those words, which had 
induced Joan to doubt whether he 
was in his senses, with a glance yet 
fiercer and more threatening than 
the last. But Bussy perfectly im- 
passive, received it with an expression 
ot the most profound veneration, 
and replied not a word. 

44 Yes ! of that monster,” repeated 
Monsieur de Meridor, whose head, it 
would seem, was growing more and 
more confused, 44 of that assassin, 
who has murdered my daughter.” 

44 Unhappy lord !” murmured Bus- 

sy. 

44 What can he mean by that ?” 
asked Joan, questioning the others 
in her turn. 

44 You do not know, then, you who 
gaze at me with such terror in your 
eyes,” cried Monsieur de Meridor, 
seizing the hands of Joan and Mon- 
sieur de Saint-Luc, and uniting them 
within the clasp of his own — 44 you 
do not know that the Duke of Anjou 
killed my Diana ! My child, my 
daughter, it is the Duke of Anjou 
who killed her.” 

And the old man uttered these last 
words with such an accent of de- 
spair, that tears rushed into the 
eyes of Bussy himself. 

44 Seigneur,” said the young lady. 
44 even if this were so, and how it can 
be so, I do not comprehend, you 
cannot accuse Monsieur de Bussy, 
the most loyal — the most generous 
gentleman, who ever lived, of any 
participation in that misfortune. 
Look, you, now my good father, 
Monsieur de Bussy, knows nothing 
of what you are telling us ; Monsieur 
de Bussy weeps, as we do, and with 
us. Could he have come hither, 
then, if he could have expected such 
a reception ? Ah ! dear Seigneur 
Augustin, in the name of your well- 
beloved Diana, tell us how this ca- 
tastrophe can have befallen us.” 

44 Then I must believe, that vou 
did not know this thing ?” said the 

O 

old man, addressing himself to Bus- 
sy- 

Bussy bowed low, without replying. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


16 ? 


<{ All ! Mon Dietiy no !” cried Joan, 
“ all the world are ignorant of this 
sad event.” 

u My Diana is dead, and her best 
friend ignorant of the event ! Oh ! 
it is true ! I have not written, I have 
not spoken of it to any one. It 
seemed to me that the world itself 
could live no longer, after Diana had 
ceased to live. It seemed to me that 
the universe itself ought to wear 
mourning for Diana.” 

u Speak, speak. It will console 
you to do so,” said Joan. 

u Listen, then,” said the baron, 
clearing his voice by a sharp sob. 
u That infamous prince, that blot on 
the nobility of France, saw my Di- 
ana, and seeing her so beautiful, 
caused her to be carried off, and con- 
cealed in the chateau of Beauge, in 
order that he might dishonor her, as 
if she had been the daughter of a 
serf. But Diana, my holy and noble 
Diana, preferred death to shame. 
She cast herself out of the window, 
into the deep lake, and nothing was 
found of her, save her veil, floating 
on the surface of the water.” 

And the old man could not arti- 
culate the last phrase without a fit of 
sobbing and a flow of tears, which 
rendered that scene the most lugubri- 
ous spectacle that ever Bussy had 
encountered — Bussy, the man inured 
to war, accustomed to see blood flow, 
nay ! to shed it himself, like water. 

Joan, almost fainting, gazed also 
at the count, in a sort of terrified 
astonishment. 

u Oh ! count,” exclaimed Saint- 
Luc, u this is too frightful, is it not ? 
Count, you must forsake the cause 
of this infamous prince. Count, a 
noble heart, such as yours, cannot 
remain bound by links of friendship, 
to a ravisher and an assassin.” 

r l he old man, somewhat comforted 
by these words, awaited the reply of 
Bussy, in order to deti rmine his opi- 
nion of that gentleman. The sympa- 
thetic words of Saint-Luc consoled 
him in the meanwhile. In great 


moral crises, the physical weakness 
of the sufferer is wont to be very 
great. And it is not one of the 
smallest consolations to the pain Ot 
a child bitten by a favorite dog, to 
see the dog punished for the bite. 

But Bussy, instead of replying to 
Mons. de Saint-Luc’s apostrophe, 
made one step toward Mons. de Meri- 
dor. 

u Mons. le Baron,” said he, u will 
you grant me the honor of a private 
interview with you ?” 

u Listen to M. de Bussy, my dear 
lord,” said Joan, u you will see tha!^ 
he is good, and that he knows how to 
render services of moment.” 

u Speak, Monsieur,” said the baron 
trembling, for he was anticipating 
something strange from the young 
man’s manner and expression. 

Bussy turned round to Saint-Lm 
and his wife, and turning on them an 
eye full fraught with friendship and 
nobility of soul : 

“ Will you,” he said, u permit uo 
to speak alone ?” 

The two young persons left the hall 
together, leaning one against the 
other, and feeling doubly blest by 
their own happiness in the midst c i 
such misery of others. 

Then, when the door had closed bo- 
hind them, Bussy approached tkj 
baron and bowed to him very low. 

a Monsieur le Baron,” said Bussy, 
u you have but now accused, in my 
presence, the prince whom I servo . 
and that with such violence, that I an.' 
compelled to ask an explanation ci 
you.” 

The old man made a violent gesture 
u Oh ! do not mistake the the 
roughly respectful meaning of m# 
words. It is with the deepest sympa 
thy that I address you. It is with 
the fullest desire of softening youi 
sorrows that I now say to you, Mon 
sieur le Baron, make me the recital oi 
the lamentable catastrophe which you 
have but now related to Mons. de 
Saint-Luc and his wife ; make it to 
me with all its details. Let us set 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


105 

whether everything has indeed taken | 
place as yon relate it, and whether 
every hope is indeed lost.” 

Monsieur,” said the old man, u I 
had a moment’s hope once. A noble 
and loyal gentleman, Mons. de Mon- 
soroau, loved my poor daughter, and 
took the liveliest interest in her.” 

Mons. de Monsoreau ! Well !” 
asked Bussy, u let us see what has 
been his conduct in the whole of this 
affair.” 

tw Ah ! his conduct has been gene- 
rous and loyal, for Diana had refused 
linn her hand ; yet it is he who, in 
the first instance, informed me of the 
intamous projects of the duke. It is 
he who pointed out to me the method 
of defeating them. He asked but one 
thing, should he succeed in rescuing 
my daughter, and that thing proved 
all the nobleness and all the upright- 
ness of his soul. He asked that, in 
jase he should succeed in preserving 
uer from the hands of the duke, I 
would give her to himself in marriage ; 

3 n order that he, young, active and 
r nterprising, might defend her against 
: powerful prince, as her poor father 
could not hope to do. 

“ I gave him my consent with joy ; 
Out , alas ! it was useless. He arrived 
too late, and found my poor Diana 
preserved from dishonor by death 
only ” 

And, since that fatal moment,” 
asked Bussy, u has Mons. de Monso- 
reau given you no tidings ?” 

w * It is but a month since these 
events passed,” said the poor old 
man u and the unhappy gentleman 
has been afraid, undoubtedly, to ap- 
pear in my presence, having failed of 
the accomplishment of his generous 
design ” 

Bussy cast down his eyes. Every- 
thing was now explained to him. 

Now he comprehended how Mons. 
de Monsoreau had i^ucceeded in car- 
rying off from the prince the young 
Jady whom he loved himself, and how 
the apprehension that the prince 
should discover that the young lady 
had become his wife, had induced him 


to suffer the poor father himself to 
believe the report of his daughter’s 
death. 

“ What say you now, Monsieur ?” 
asked the old man, seeing that the 
brow of the young noble was bent 
downward, and that the eyes, which 
his narrative had caused more than 
once to sparkle brightly, were riveted 
on the ground. 

u Well! Monsieur le Baron,” re- 
plied Bussy, u I am charged by Mon- 
seigneur le Due d’ Anjou to convey 
you to Paris, where his Highness de- 
sires to speak with you.” 

“ To speak with me?” cried the 
baron. u I to find myself standing 
face to face with that man, after the 
murder of my daughter ! And what 
can he have to say to me, the mur- 
derer ?” 

u Who can tell ? To justify him- 
self, perhaps.” 

u And should he justify himself,” 
said the old man, “alas! my daugh- 
ter would still be lost to me ! No, 
Monsieur de Bussy, no ; I will not go 
to Paris. It would be, moreover, re- 
moving myself too far from the spot 
where my dear child reposes in her 
reedy shroud.” 

“ Monsieur le Baron,” said Bussy, 
in a firm voice, “ permit me to in- 
sist with you. It is my duty to con- 
duct you to Paris. I have come 
hither for that very purpose.” 

“ Be it so ! I will go to Paris !” 
exclaimed the old man, litera % 
trembling with passion. u But woe 
to those who shall have ruined 
me ! The king shall hear me, 
and if he will not hear me, I will 
make my appeal to all the gentlemen 
of France. Moreover,” he murmur- 
ed to himself, u I had forgotten, in 
my grief, that I hold a weapon in my 
hands of which, hitherto, I have made 
no use. Yes, Monsieur de Bussy, I 
will accompany you to Paris.” 

u And I, Monsieur le Baron,” said 
Bussy, taking him by the hand, u I 
recommend to you the patience, the 
calmness, and- the dignity which are 
becoming to a Christian noblemnu 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAD. 


269 


God has infinite mercy in store for 
noblo hearts, and you know not what 
he may have in reserve for you. I 
pray you also, while awaiting the day 
in which that mercy shall be shown to 
you, not to count me in the number 
of your enemies. For you know not 
what I may have it in my power to do 
for you. To-morrow, then, if you 
please, Monsieur le Baron, as soon 
as the day shall have dawned, we 
will set forth on our journey.” 

u I consent,” replied the old man, 
affected, in spite of himself, by the 
gentle accent in which Bussy had pro- 
nounced these words; u but in the 
meantime, friend or foe, you are my 
guest, and it is my duty to conduct 
you to your apartment.” 

And the baron took from the table 
a silver candlestick with three branch- 
es, and, with a heavy step, followed 
by Bussy d’Amboise, ascended the 
grand staircase of the chateau. 

The dogs would have followed him, 
but he stopped them with a sign. 
Two of his servants, however, fol- 
lowed Bussy, having other flambeaux. 

As he reached the threshold of the 
chamber which was destined to his 
use, the count inquired what had be- 
come of Monsieur de Saint-Luc and 
his wife. 

u My old Germain has taken care 
of them,” replied the Baron. u May 
you rest well here, Monsieur le 
Comte.” 


CHAPTER II. 

HOW REMY LE HAUDOUIN HAD GAINED 

INTELLIGENCE IN THE HOUSE OF 

THE RUE SAINT- ANTOINE DURING 

THE ABSENCE OF BUSSY. 

* 

Monsieur and Madame de Saint- 
Luc could not overcome their surprise. 
Bussy in secret communication with 
Monsieur de Meridor ! Bussy on the 
point of setting forth with the old 


man for Paris ! Bussy, in short, ap- 
pearing on a sudden to take the di- 
rection of those affairs, which appear 
ed at first to be entirely strange to 
him ! All this appeared inexplicable 
to the young husband and wife ! 

As to the baron, the magical pow- 
er of those words, his Royal Highness, 
had produced their ordinary effect on 
him. A gentleman of the times of 
Henry the Third had not begun to 
smile at titles or armorial bearing®. 

Royal Highness signified then to the 
Baron of Meridor, as it signified, in- 
deed, to every one except the King, 
inevitable and invincible force — that 
is to say, storm and thunder. 

When the morning had come the 
baron took leave of his guests, whom 
he put in full possession of his cha- 
teau. But Saint-Luc and his wife 
felt the difficulty of the position, and 
promised themselves to leave Meridor 
so soon as it should be possible, and 
to repair to the estates of Brissac, 
which were close adjoining, so soon as 
they should have secured the consent of 
the timid Marechal. 

As for Bussy, he occupied him but 
one second to justify the whole of his 
strange conduct. Bussy, the master 
of the secret which he possessed, and 
which he had the power of revealing 
to whom he would soever, resembled 
one of those magicians so dear to the 
Orientals, who, at the first waving of 
a wand, made tears flow from all eyes, 
and at the second, caused every face 
to be expanded and every mouth 
parted by a gay and joyous smile. 

The second, which, as we have ob- 
served, was all that Bussy needed to 
bring to pass such a change, was era 
ployed by him in letting fall into the 
ear of Saint-Luc’s charming wife, a 
few syllables, to which she listened 
with the utmost avidity. 

But those few syllables pronounced, 
the face of Joan beamed joyfully, and 
her fair brow was overspread with 
a delicious blush. Her small white 
teeth, brilliant as the mother of pearl, 
appeared under the coral of those lips, 
and as her husband lcoked at her in 


170 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; utt, 


astonishment, and seemed to he on the 
point of asking some question, she 
laid a finger on her lips, and bounded 
away, blowing a kiss of thanks to- 
wards Bussy. 

The old lord had seen nothing of 
that pantomime which was so expres- 
sive to those who beheld it. His 
eye fixed on his paternal manor, he 
mechanically caressed his two tall 
hounds, who could not make up their 
minds to leave him. He gave some 
orders to his servants, in a voice which 
proved that he was deeply affected, 
while the men seemed to be them- 
selves greatly troubled at the idea of 
losing him, as well as at his words. 
Then, not without much difficulty, 
mounting an old piebald horse, of 
which he was very fond, and which 
had been his charger in the last civil 
wars, mounting him, too, only by the 
aid of an equerry, he made a gesture 
of salutation and farewell to the cha- 
teau of Meridor, and departed with- 
out uttering a single word. 

Bussy, with a bright eye and gay 
expression, replied to the smiles of 
Joan, and turned back frequently to 
wave his farewell to his friends. As 
she left him, Joan said to him in a 
whisper, 

u How strange a man you are, Seig- 
neur Comte ! i promised happiness to 
you at Meridor ; and it is you, who, 
on the contrary, have brought back, 
hither, that happiness, which had fled 
away.” 

From Meridor to Paris it is a 
weary distance, weary especially to 
an old baron riddled with sword - 
thrusts and musket shots, received in 
those fierce wars in which the severity 
of the wounds was proportionate to 
'the valor of the warriors. Weary 
was the journey also to the stout old 
" horse, whom his master called Jarnac, 
and who, at that name, tossed his 
head proudly, buried, as it was, un- 
der his long and heavy mane, and 
rolled his eye fiercely beneath his 
drooping lids. 

Once on the route, Bussy applied 
himself to his study ; that study was 


how to win, by his cares and his at- 
tentions, the heart of the old man, 
whose hatred he had almost called 
down upon himself, in the first in- 
stance ; and, undoubtedly, he in some 
sort succeeded, for on the sixth day, 
early in the morning, on their arrival 
in Paris, M. de Meridor spoke to his 
travelling companion in these words, 
which proved all the changes which 
had come over his mind during their 

o 

journey. 

“ It is singular, count, here am I 
nearer than ever I have been to the 
cause of my misery, and yet 3 am 
more tranquil at my arrival than I 
was at the moment of my departure ” 

u Yet two hours more, Seigneur 
Augustin,” said De Bussy, u and you 
will have judged me, as I desire to be 
judged by you.” 

The travellers entered Paris by the 
Faubourg Saint-Marcel, the usual 
mode of entering, the preference for 
which can easily be understood at 
that epoch, because that horrible dis- 
trict, one of the ugliest in all Paris, 
was then considered singularly Pa- 
risian, thanks to its numerous church- 
es, its thousands of picturesque 
houses, and its little bridges built 
over little rivulets and rivers. 

“Whither are we going?” asked 
the baron. u To the Louvre, I pre- 
sume ?” 

u Monsieur,’’ said Bussy, u in the 
first place, I am about to conduct you 
to my hotel, in order that you may 
repose yourself for a few moments, 
and take some refreshment, and that 
afterward you may prepare yourself 
so as to be in a proper condition for 
seeing the person to whose presence 
1 am about to conduct you.” 

The baron allowed him to do as he 
would ; and Bussy led him straight- 
way to his hotel in the Rue de Gre- 
nelle Samt-Honore. 

The count’s people did not expect 
him, or to speak more correctly, ex- 
pected him no longer. Having re- 
turned by night, by a postern of 
which he only had the key, he had 
saddled his horse with his own hands 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


171 


ind had set forth without seeing any 
other person than Remy le Haudouin. 
It will be understood, therefore, that 
his sudden disappearance, the dan- 
gers he had incurred during the past 
week, the details of which had leaked 
out through his wound, his adven- 
turous habits, in a word, which seem- 
ed to be beyond the reach of correc- 
tion by any accident, had led many 
of his people to believe that he had 
fallen into some trap laid for him by 
his enemies, and that fortune, which 
had been for so long a time favorable 
to his courage, had, at length, proved 
hostile to his rashness, and that 
Bussy, unseen and invisible, had 
perished by some stab or shot. Thus 
it was that Bussy’s best friends and 
most faithful servants were already 
vowing nine days’ devotion, in order 
to purchase his return to the light of 
day, a return which seemed to them 
hardly less hazardous than that of 
Pirithous, while others, less devout, 
hoping only to recover his corpse, 
were pushing their researches in order 
to find it, into the most secret sewers 
and most suspicious cellars, into the 
quarries of the suburbs, the bed of 
the Becon, or the fosses of the Bastille. 

One person alone replied to all in- 
quiries that were put to him : 

u Monsieur the count is perfectly 
well.” 

But in case of any persons desiring 
to carry their inquiries further, as 
that person knew nothing further, his 
information necessarily ended there. 

This person, who, in consequence 
of this very consolatory, though some- 
what indefinite, reply, continually 
met with all sorts of rebuffs and evil 
retorts, was no other than Maitre Re- 
my A e Haudouin, who, from morn- 
ing till evening, walked hard and fast, 
losing his time in strange contempla- 
tions, disappearing at all sorts of 
unusual hours, whether of the day 
or night, from the hotel, returning 
home with all sorts of unusual appe- 
tites, and bringing back by his gaiety, 
every time he returned, a little gaiety 
to the heart of that sad house. 


Le Haudouin, after one of these 
mysterious absences, was entering the 
hotel at the precise moment in which 
the court of honor was resounding 
with outcries of joy, in which the 
eager varlets ^ere struggling with 
one another for the reins of Bussy’s 
horse, and disputing who should play 
the part of the count’s equerry, for, 
instead of dismounting as usual, he 
was still sitting on his horse. 

u Come,” said Bussy, “ you are 
well pleased to see me alive, I thank 
you for it. You ask me if it is in- 
deed I, or if it is merely my shadow. 
It is indeed I ; look at me, touch me, 
satisfy yourselves, but do it quickly. 
Good. Now assist this noble gentle- 
man to dismount from his horse, and 
observe that I esteem him worthy of 
more respect than I do any prince.” 

Bussy had good reason for thus 
elevating the old man in the opinion 
of his people, since they had paid 
but little attention to him in tho 
first instance ; and since from his 
modest dress, his air little adapted to 
the fantasies of the great world, and 
his old piebald horse, which was 
thoroughly appreciated by men who 
were in the daily habit of exercising 
Bussy’s horses, they had been almost 
induced to take the old baron for 
some esquire who had been produced 
from his retirement in some remote 
province, as if it had been from 
another world, by the adventurous 
gentleman their master. 

But these words once uttered the 
only strife was to see who should pay 
the greatest attention to the Baron. 
Le Haudouin looked at this scene 
laughing in his sleeve, according to 

o o / o 

his custom, and Bussy was compelled 
to exert all his gravity in order to 
banish that broad smile from the 
young doctor’s merry countenance. 

u Quick, an apartment for Mon- 
seigneur,” cried De Bussy. 

“ Which ?” inquired five or six ea- 
ger voices. 

“The best, my own,” answered 
Bussy. 

And in his turn he offered his 


172 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


arm to assist the old man to ascend 
the stair-case, endeavouring to show 
him greater honor than he had him- 
self received at Meridor. 

Monsr. de Meridor gave himself 
up to this overwhelming courtesy 
without opposition and almost with- 
out consciousness of what was pass- 
ing, as men give themselves up t‘o the 
whirl of some wild dreams which lead 
them into fantastic lands, realms of 
night and imagination. 

The count’s golden goblet was 
brought to the baron, and Bussy in- 
sisted on pouring out with his own 
hands the wine of hospitality. 

“ Thanks, thanks, Monsieur,” 
said the old man. “ But shall we 
soon go to the place whither we are 
bound ?” 

“Yes, Seigneur Augustin, very 
soon. Be not uneasy on that score, 
and it will not only be a piece of 
happiness to you, but to me also.” 

“ What say you ? and whence 
comes it, that you almost invariably 
speak in a tongue which I do not 
comprehend ?” 

“ I say, Seigneur Augustin, that I 
have spoken to you of a Providence 
who has infinite mercies in store for 
noble hearts, and that we are ap- 
proaching the moment when, in your 
name, I shall make an appeal to that 
Providence.” 

The baron gazed at Bussy with an 
expression of astonishment, but Bus- 
sy, making a respectful motion of his 
hand toward him, as much as to say, 
“ I will return in an instant,” left the 
room with a smile on his lips. 

As lie expected, Le Haudouin was 
standing sentinel at the door. He 
took the young man by the arm, and 
drew him away into his own private 
closet. 

“ Well ! Dear Hippocrates,” he 
asked, “ how do we stand now ?” 

“ Stand now — as to what r” 

“ Parbleu ! the Rue Saint- Antoine. ” 

“ Monseigneur, we stand at a 
point, which will, I fancy, prove ex- 
ceedingly interesting to you. Be- 
yond this, there is nothing new.” 


Bussy breathed more lightly. 

“ The husband has not returned 
then ?” said he. 

“ Yes,” he has ; “ but to no pur- 
pose. There is, it appears, at the 
bottom of all this a father who is to 
be present at the unravelling of the 
knot, a god who some fine morning 
or other will come down from a ma- 
chine ; and for the present this ab- 
sent father, this god from the ma- 
chine, is still absent.” 

“ Good !” exclaimed Bussy. “But 
how know you all this ?” 

“ You will understand, Monsieur,” 
said Le Haudouin, with his easy good- 
humored gaiety, “ that your ab- 
sence having left my situation in 
your household almost a sinecure 
for the time being, I thought I might 
as well turn the moments which you 
had spared to me to advantage in 
your behalf.” 

“ Well. Let me hear what you 
have done. Say on, my dear Remy.” 
“ Listen, then. When you had 
gone, I carried some money, a sword, 
and a few books, to a small chamber 
which I had hired, and which formed 
a portion of the house standing at 
the angle of the Rue Catherine, and 
the Rue Saint- Antoine.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Thence I could see the house 
which you know, from its base to its 
chimney-tops.” 

“ Excellently done.” 

“ Scarce was I in possession of my 
chamber, before I installed myself at 
a window.” 

“ Bravo. What next ?” 

“ Yes ! but there was one fault to 
be found with that excellent move of 
mine.” 

“ What was that ?” 

“ That if I could see, I could also 
be seen, and that persons, all con- 
sidered, might possibly take umbrage 
at seeing a man continually gazing 
out upon the same prospect ; a de- 
gree of obstinacy, which, had I per- 
sisted in it for three days, would have 
caused me to be mistaken for a thief, 
a lover, a spy, or a madman.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


173 


44 Potently reasoned, my dear Le 
Haudouin. But what did you then ?” 
44 Oh ! then I perceived that it was 
necessary for me to have recourse to 
bold measures, and upon my honor” — 
44 Upon your honor — what ?” — 

44 Upon my honor, I fell in love.” 
44 Ahem !” replied Bussy, who 
could not at all comprehend how 
Bussy’s love should serve him. 

44 It is as I have the honor to in- 
form you,” repeated the young doctor, 
very gravely. 44 I fell in love, very 
much in love, madly in love.” 

44 With whom ?” 

44 With Geftrude.” 

44 With Gertrude, Madame de Mon- 
soreau’s lady’s maid ?” 

44 Yes, yes! Mordieu ! with Ger- 
trude, Madame de Monsoreau’s 
lady’s maid. What would you have, 
Monseigneur ? I am not a gentleman 
that I should fall in love with the 
mistress, I am only a poor little chi- 
rurgeon, with no other practice than 
that of the client, who, I hope, will 
only give me his custom, from time to 
time at long intervals, and I must 
make my experiments only in anima 
vili, as we used to say at the Sor- 
bonne.” 

44 Poor Remy,” said Bussy, 44 rest 
assured that I appreciate your devo- 
tion ; proceed.” 

44 Ah, Monseigneur,” replied Le 
Haudouin, 44 I am not so much to be 
pitied. Gertrude is a fine slip of a 
girl, two inches taller than myself, 
who could lift me up at arm’s length 
by the collar of my coat, which 
proves that she has a very fine devel- 
opment of the biceps and deltoid mus- 
cles. This gives me a veneration for 
her, which she finds very flattering ; 
and as I always yield to her, we never 
have any disputes. And again, she 
possesses one marvellous talent.” 

44 What is that, my dear Remy ?” 
44 She relates admirably.” 

44 Ah ! indeed !” 

44 Yes. So much so, that through 
her I know everything that passes at 
her mistress’s house. Heigh ! what 
say you to that ? I thought it would 


not be disagreeable to you to have 
some means of gaining intelligence in 
that house.” 

44 Le Haudouin, thou art a good 
genius, whom chance, or rather Provi- 
dence, has thrown into my way. 
Then you are on terms with Gertrude 
of the” — 

u Puella me diligit /” replied Le 
Haudouin hastily, balancing himself 
to and fro with an affectation of silly 
coxcombry. 

44 And are you admitted into the 
house ?” 

44 Last night, I made my entrance 
thither, at midnight, on the tips of 
my toes, by the famous door with the 
wicket, which you know.” 

44 And how did you attain to that 
good fortune ?” 

44 Why, naturally enough, I must 
admit it.” 

44 Well, tell me.” 

44 On the day next but one after 
your departure, the day following 
that on which I installed myself in 
my little chamber, I waited at the 
door until the lady of my future in- 
tentions should come forth to pur- 
chase provisions, a duty, I must con- 
fess, which keeps her engaged every 
morning from eight until nine o’clock. 
At ten minutes after date I saw her 
make her appearance. I immediate- 
ly left my post of observation, and 
placed myself full in her way.” 

44 And did she recollect you?” 

44 She recollected me so clearly, 
that she set up a great cry and ran 
away.” 

u And then ?” 

44 And then I ran after her, and 
overtook her with great difficulty ; 
for you know that she runs very fast, 
but then the petticoats, you under- 
stand ! the petticoats always get a 
good deal in the way !” 

44 4 Jesu !’ cried she. 

4 4 4 Holy Virgin !’ cried I. 

44 That gave a good opinion of me 
in the first instance, you see. Any 
one else, less pious than I, would 
have cried 4 Morbleu /’ or 4 Corbleu ' 
44 4 The surgeon !’ said she. 


174 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


44 4 The charming house-keeper !’ 
said I. 

44 She smiled ; hut recovering her- 
self in a moment, 4 You are mistaken, 
Monsieur,’ said she, 4 1 do not know 
you.’ 

44 4 But I know you,’ said I. 4 For 
during the three last days, I have not 
lived, I have not existed — I adore 
you — and that to such a degree, that 
I no longer live in the Rue Beautreil- 
lis, but in the Rue Saint- Antoine, at 
the corner of the Rue Catherine ; and 
I changed my lodgings only that 
I might have the pleasure of seeing 
you coming in and out of your house. 
So that, if you should ever have oc- 
casion for me again to dress the 
wounds of handsome gentlemen, it 
must be no longer at my old lodg- 
ings, but to my new apartments that 
you must come and find me.’ 

44 4 Silence,’ said she. 

44 4 Aha ! you see, you do know 
me.’ I made answer. 

44 And in this manner it is, that I 
renewed my acquaintance with her.” 

44 So at this moment,” said Bussy, 
44 you are” — 

44 As favored a lover as may be, 
with Gertrude, be it understood. Eve- 
rything is comparative. But I am 
more than favored or fortunate, I am 
at the very summit of felicity, since I 
have gained the point at which I 
aimed, for your benefit.” 

44 But she will perhaps suspect ?” 

44 She will suspect nothing. I 
have neve reven spoken to her of you. 
Is it to be supposed that poor Remy 
le Haudouin should be acquainted 
with noble gentlemen, such as- the 
Seigneur de Bussy ? No, no. I only 
asked her with the utmost indiffer- 
ence — And your young master, is he 
any better ?” 

4 4 4 What young master ?’ said she. 

4 4 4 The young knight whose wound 
I dressed at your house.’ 

4 4 4 He is not my young master,’ she 
replied. 

4 4 4 Ah ! It is because he was ly- 
ing in your mistress’ bed, that I sup- 
posed so/ said I. 


44 4 Ah ! Mon Dieu ! no, poor young 
man,’ she answered me, with a sigh. 

4 He is nothing to us ; absolutely 
nothing. We have not even seen him 
since that time, with one exception.’ 
44 4 Then you do not even know his 
name ?’ asked I. 

44 4 Oh yes, I do.’ 

4 4 4 Perhaps you once knew, and 
have forgotten.’ 

4 4 4 His is not a name which one for- 
gets.’ 

44 4 What is his name, then ?’ 

4 4 4 Did you ever hear tell of the 
Seigneur de Bussy ?’ 

4 4 4 Parbleu ! ’ I answered. 4 Bussy ! 
Bussy the brave !’ 

44 4 Well. This is he.’ 

4 4 4 Ah ! Then the lady ?’ — 

44 4 My mistress is married. Mon- 
sieur. ’ 

44 4 One may be married — one may 
even be faithful, and yet she may 
think sometimes of a handsome young 
man whom she may have seen, espe- 
cially if this handsome young man 
were wounded, interesting, and lying 
in her own bed.’ 

44 4 Therefore,’ replied Gertrude, 
4 to be frank with you, I do not say 
that my mistress does not sometimes 
think of him.’ ” 

A crimson flush overspread Bussy’s 
forehead. 

44 4 We even talk of him,’ added 
Gertrude, 4 whenever we are alone.’ ” 
44 Excellent girl !” exclaimed the 
count. 

44 4 And what do you tell her about 
him?’” asked I. 

44 4 1 relate his prowess. Which is 
by no means difficult, seeing that all 
Paris is talking of nothing but the 
sword-thrusts which he gives and re- 
ceives. I have even taught my mis- 
tress a little song about him, which is 
very much the fashion.’ 

44 4 Ah ! I know it’ — replied I, 4 is 
it not — • 

‘ Foremost of blades, whatever the cause, 
Bravest of lords is the lord of Amboise j 
Tender and true is the lord of Bussy, 

Flower of faith and of courtesy.* 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


175 


^ * Precisely,’ exclaimed Gertrude. 
c So that my mistress never sings any- 
thing but that nowadays.’ ” 

Bussy pressed the young doctor’s 
hand ; a thrill of indescribable rap- 
ture shot through his every vein at 
Remy’s words. 

u And is this all ?” said he, so in- 
satiable is man in his desires. 

u That is all, Monseigneur. Oh ! 
I shall know more about it, by and 
by But how the devil should one 
know everything in a single day, or 
rather, in a single night ?” 


CHAPTER III. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

T Hts report from Remy rendered Bus- 
sy very happy ; in fact, it had taught 
him two things ; the first, that Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau was still hated 
as much as ever ; and that he, Bus- 
sy, was loved — better, at least, than 
before. 

Moreover, the warm friendship of 
the young man toward himself re- 
joiced his heart. There is in all 
those sentiments which are given to us 
by Heaven, a sort of expansion of 
our whole being, which seems, as it 
were, to increase all our faculties two 
fold. We feel happy, because we 
feel virtuous. 

Bussy comprehended then, that 
there was no more time to be lost 
now, and that every throb of pain 
which he suffered to convulse the old 
man’s bosom, was now almost a sacri- 
lege. There is something so contrary 
to the ordinary rules of nature in the 
spectacle of a father weeping a 
daughter’s death, that he who has the 
power of consoling a father by a 
word, yet consoles him not, merits the 
everlasting malediction of all fathers. 

When he descended into the court, 
Monsieur de Meridor found a fresh 
horse, which Bussy had caused to be 


prepared for him. Another horse was 
standing ready for Bussy also. The 
two gentlemen mounted, and set forth, 
Remy attending them. 

They soon reached the Rue Saint- 
Antonie, not without a good deal of 
surprise on the part of Monsieur de 
Meridor, who for twenty years had 
not been in Paris, and who, as he 
heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs, 
the shouts of the lacqueys, and the 
more frequent passage of coaches, 
thought Paris greatly altered since 
the reign of King Henry the Second. 

But notwithstanding that astonish- 
ment, which was but a little way re- 
moved from admiration, the old baron 
preserved, nevertheless, an expression 
of sorrow, which, if anything, aug- 
mented in proportion as he drew nigh to 
the unknown termination of his jour- 
ney. What reception was he about 
to receive fromthe prince ? What new 
sorrows were likely to be the conse- 
quence of this interview ? 

Then, from time to time, as he gaz- 
ed on Bussy in astonishment, he be- 
gan to ask himself by what strange 
self-abandonment he had given himself 
up to the guidance of the friend of a 
prince to whom he owed nothing but 
misery. Should he not better have con- 
sulted his dignity by braving the Duke 
of Anjou, and instead of thus accom- 
panying Bussy whithersoever he 
should think proper to conduct him, 
by going straightway to the Louvre, 
and casting himself before the feet of 
the King? What could the prince 
have to say to him ? In what could 
he console him? Was he not one 
of those who apply a few golden 
words, like a momentary balm to the 
wounds which themselves have made, 
but which, before the victims have 
left the presence, again break out 
into fresh bleeding and pain, keener 
than before ? 

Thus it is, that they arrived at the 
Rue Saint-Paul. Bussy, like a skil- 
ful captain, had caused Remy to pre- 
cede him, with instructions to recon- 
noitre the street, and to prepare means 
for their introduction into the house. 


176 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


He, in his turn, applied to Ger- 
trude, and returned to tell his master 
that no hat or rapier was conceal- 
ed in the alley, the staircase, or the 
corridor, which led to the chamber of 
Madame de Monsoreau. 

All these consultations, as will be 
readily understood, were carried on 
in whispers between Bussy and Le 
Haudoin. 

During this time, the baron was 
looking about him in astonishment. 

u What is this ?” he asked, at 
length. 44 Is it here that the Duke 
of Anjou lodges ?” 

And it would seem that a certain 
feeling of distrust was arising in his 
mind, from the humble appearance of 
the house. 

44 Not precisely, Monsieur,” re- 
plied Bussy, with a smile, 44 but if it 
be not his dwelling, it is that of a 
lady whom he has loved.” 

A cloud overcast the brow of the 
old gentleman. 

44 Monsieur,” said he, pulling u^) 
his horse, 44 we poor provincial folk 
are not used to these fashions. The 
loose morality of Paris strikes us with 
dismay, and that to such a degree, 
that we know not how to live in the 
presence of your mysteries. It seems 
to me, that if the Duke of Anjou de- 
sires to see the Baron of Meridor, it 
should be at his own palace, and not 
at the house of any of his mistresses. 
Moreover,” added the old man, with 
a deep sigh, 44 wherefore do you, who 
appear to be an honorable man, lead 
me to confront one of these women ? 
Is it that you would let me under- 
stand that my poor Diana would yet 
be living, if, like the mistress of this 
house, she had preferred infamy to 
death ?” 

44 Come, come, Monsieur le Baron,” 
said Bussy, with that frankness which 
nad been his greatest auxiliary with 
the baron, 44 let us have no false con- 
jectures. Upon my honor as a gentle- 
man, there is no connection between 
the truth, and that which you suppose. 
The lady whom you are going to see 


is perfectly virtuous, and noble in all 
respects.” 

44 And who is she then 

44 She is — the wife of a gentleman 
of your acquaintance.” 

44 Indeed ? Then, wherefore, Mon- 
sieur, did you tell me she was beloved 
of the prince ?” 

44 Because I always speak the truth. 
Monsieur le Baron, enter and you 
will judge yourself when you see the 
accomplishment of all that I have pro- 
mised you.” 

44 Beware. I was weeping my be- 
loved child, and you said to me, 4 Be 
consoled, Monsieur ; the mercies of 
God are infinite.’ To promise me a 
consolation to my sorrows, was almost 
to promise me a miracle.” 

44 Enter, Monsieur,” repeated Bus- 
sy, with the same smile which had 
produced such influence at all times 
over the old nobleman. 

The baron dismounted. 

Gertrude had run to the threshold 
of the door in utter astonishment, and 
looked with a bewildered eye on Le 
Haudouin, Bussy, and the old man, 
unable to divine by what Providential 
combination these three men were 
thus brought together. 

44 Go and inform Madame de Mon- 
soreau,” said the young count , 44 that 
Monsieur de Bussy has returned, and 
desires to speak with her this very in- 
stant. But on your soul ! tell her 
not one word of the person who ac- 
companies me.” 

44 Madame de Monsoreau !” said 
the old man in amazement , 44 Madame 
de Monsoreau !” 

44 Pass on, Monsieur le Baron,” said 
Bussy, pushing the Seigneur Augustin 
into the alley. 

Then they heard, while the old 
man was ascending the staircase with 
a weak and trembling foot, they heard, 
we say, the voice of Diana answer- 
ing— 

44 Monsieur de Bussy, do you say, 
Gertrude? Monsieur de Bussy ! Very 
well, let him enter.” 

44 That voice !” said the baron, stop- 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


17 ) 


ping short, suddenly, midway the 
staircase, “ that voice ! oh mon Dieu! 
monDieuP ’ 

“ Proceed, then, Monsieur le Ba- 
ron,” cried Bussy. 

But at that very moment, while the 
baron was still clinging with a trem- 
bling hand to the balustrade, looking 
eagerly around him, Diana appeared at 
the head of a staircase, under the full 
light of a radiant sunbeam, lovelier 
than ever, and dazzling with bright 
smiles, although she knew not that 
she was about to see her father. 

At that sight, which she mistook 
for some magical vision, the old man 
uttered a terrible cry ; and with his 
arms extended, his eyes haggard, and 
his lips apart, he offered so painful a 
picture of terror and delirium, that 
Diana, who was ready to cast herself* 
upon his neck, stopped at his side, 
dismayed, and almost thunderstruck. 

The baron, extending his hand, felt 
Bussy’s elbow within his reach, and 
grasped it. 

“ Diana alive !” murmured the ba- 
ron of Meridor, “ Diana ! my Diana! 
who, as they told me, was dead ; oh 
my God ! my God !” and that stout 
warrior, that vigorous actor in foreign 
and civil wars, which had continually 
spared him ; that old oak, whom the 
thunderstroke of Diana’s death had 
left still erect ; that athlete, who had 
struggled so potently against grief, 
crushed, broken, overcome by joy, 
recoiled with his knees yielding under 
him, and had it not been for Bussy, 
would have fallen headlong from the 
top of the staircase, at the sight of 
that cherished image, which seemed 
to whirl to and fro before his dazzled 
eyes, divided into countless atoms. 

“ Mon Dieu ! Monsieur de Bussy,” 
cried Diana, rushing hastily down a 
few steps of the staircase, which sep- 
arated them one from the other, 
“ what is the matter with my fa- 
ther ?” 

And the young woman, terrified by 
the sudden paleness, and the strange 
effect produced by an interview, which 
she supposed to have been expected, 

12 


| questioned him even more with her 
eyes than with her voice. 

“ Monsieur le Baron de Meridor 
believed you to be dead, and bewailed 
you, Madame, as a father such as he 
must necessarily bewail a daughter 
such as you.” 

“ What,” cried Diana “ and had 
no one undeceived him ?” 

“ No one.” 

“ Oh ! no ! no one,” cried the old 
man, arousing himself from his fit of 
transient dismay, “ no one, not even 
Monsieur de Bussy.” 

“ Ungrateful !” said the gentleman, 
with a tone of soft reproach. 

“Oh yes,” replied the old man, 
“ oh ' yes, you are right ; for this is a 
moment which repays me for all my 
sorrows. Oh ! my Diana ! my well 
beloved Diana!” he continued, drawing 
his daughter’s hand to his lipfr with 
one hand, while he offered the other 
to Bussy. 

Then suddenly drawing himself up, 
as some grievous recollection or some 
new terror had penetrated to his heart, 
in spite of the armor of joy, if one 
may thus express himself, in which ho 
had so recently involved himself. 

“ But what did you mean,’’ he said. 
“ Monsieur de Bussy, when you told 
me that I was about to see Madame 
de Monsoreau ? Where is she ?” 

“ Alas ! my father,” murmured 
Diana. 

Bussy collected all his powers. 

“ You see her before you,” said he, 
“ and the Count of Monsoreau is your 
son-in-law.” 

“ Ha ! what ?” stammered the old 
manfeebly. “Monsieur deMonsoreau 
my son-in-law, and all the world, you 
too, Diana, and he, all the world actu- 
ally have suffered me to be ignorant 
of this ?” 

“ I was afraid to write to you, my 
father, for fear my letter should fall 
into the hands of the prince. Besides 
which, I supposed that you knew 
all.” 

“But to what end?” said the 
Baron. “ What was the object of all 
these strange mysteries ?” 


178 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ Oh 1 yes, my father, think of 
that,” cried Diana, u wherefore did 
Monsieur de Monsoreau leave you to 
suppose that I was dead ? Where- 
fore did he suffer you to be ignorant 
that he was my husband ?” 

The baron, trembling as if he dared 
not turn his eye to the bottom of 
those black mysteries, interrogated 
with an eager gaze, the glancing eyes 
of his daughter, and the melancholy 
aspect of Bussy. 

During all the time which -had 
elapsed, they had not yet reached the 
drawing-room. 

“ Monsieur de Monsoreau, my son- 
in-law!” stammered the Baron de 
Meridor, still utterly astounded 
“ That should not astonish you, 
my father,” replied Diana, in a tone 
of gentle reproach, “ did ’ you not 
command me to marry him, my fa- 
ther ?” 

“ Yes, if he saved you ” 

“ Well, he did save me,” exclaim- 
ed Diana, mournfully, “ from shame 
at least, if not from misery.” 

“ Then wherefore did he suffer me 
to believe in your death ; me who 
lamented you so bitterly ? Why did 
he leave me to die of despair, when 
by one word, one single word, he 
might have saved me from such 
agony?” 

“ Oh ! there is yet some villainy con- 
cealed beneath all this, “ cried Diana. 
“ My father, you will leave me no 
more. Monsieur de Bussy, you will 
protect us, will you not ?” 

“ Alas ! Madame,” said the young 
man, with a low bow, “ it does not 
belong to me to pry into the hearts of 
your family. It was my duty, having 
the strange manoeuvres of your hus- 
band in view, to procure for you a 
defender whom you might avow. That 
defender I went even to Meridor to 
seek ; you are now with your father, 
and I must withdraw.” 

“ He is right,” said the old man 
sorrowfully, “ Monsieur de Monso- 
reau feared the wrath of the Duke 
d ’Anjou, and Monsieur de Bussy 
fears it in his turn ” 


Diana darted one of her long deep 
glances toward the young man, and 
that glance implied — 

u And you, you whom they call 
Bussy the brave, are you one to fear 
Monsieur the Duke of Anjou, as 
Monsieur de Monsoreau may fear 
him ?” 

Bussy understood her eloquent 
look, and replied by a smile. 

“Monsieur le Baron,” he said, 
“pardon me, I pray you, for the sin- 
gular demand which I am going to 
submit to you, and do you, Madame, 
in consideration of my desire to serve 
you, excuse me.” 

Both awaited what he should ask, 
gazing at one another. 

“Monsieur le Baron, ask Madame 
de Monsoreau, I pray you — ” 

Bussy had laid some emphasis on 
her name as he spoke, an emphasis 
which caused the young lady to 
turn pale, which he perceived, and 
slightly altered the form of his 
question. 

“ Ask your daughter, I pray you, 
whether she is happy in the married 
state which you commanded her, and 
which she consented to take on her- 
self.” 

Diana clasped her hands together 
and sobbed violently ; that was the 
sole reply which she made to Bussy’s 
question. It is true that no other 
could have been as decisive. 

The eyes of the old baron filled 
with tears, for he began to see that 
the friendship he had taken up, per- 
haps too hastily, for Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, was about to turn out the 
cause of great misfortune to his 
daughter. 

“ Now,” said Bussy, “ is it true, 
you admit, Monsieur, that, without 
being forced to it by any stratagem * 
or any violence, you have given youi 
daughter’s hand to Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau ?” 

“Yes, on condition of his saving her.’ 

“ And he has actuallv saved her 
Then I need not ask you, Monsieur, 
whether it is your intention to fulfil 
your plighted word ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


179 


<c It is a law to all men, to gentle- 
men abovefcall others, and you should 
know that better than any one, Mon- 
sieur, to perform that which he has 
promised Monsieur de Monsoreau 
has, by her own confession, saved my 
daughter’s life ; she belongs, there- 
fore, to Monsieur de Monsoreau.” 
u Ah !” murmured the young lady, 
“ wherefore am I not dead ?” 

u Madame,” said Bussy, u you see 
that I was right when I said to you 
that I had nothing to do in this mat- 
ter. Monsieur the baron has given 
you to Monsieur de Monsoreau, and 
you yourself, in case you should again 
see your father safe and well, promised 
that you would give yourself to him.” 
u Ah ! do not tear my heart, Mons. 
de Bussy,” cried Madame de Monso- 
reau, drawing yet nigher to the young 
gentleman. u My father knows not 
that I am terrified at that man, my 
father knows not that I hate him ; my 
father insists on looking upon him as 
my savior, while I, whom my in- 
stincts enlighten on this subject, can 
see in him only my executioner.” 
u Diana ! Diana !’’ cried the baron, 
“ he has saved you.” 

u Yes !” exclaimed Bussy, now ex- 
cited beyond all those limits within 
which prudence and delicacy had 
hitherto restrained him ; u yes ! but 
what if the danger was less imminent 
than he caused it to appear ? what 
if the danger was fictitious ? what 
if — I know not what. But this I do 
know, baron, that beneath this there 
lies concealed some mystery to be en- 
lightened, which I will enlighten. 
But this I must protest to you, that 
I, if 1 had enjoyed the happiness of 
finding myself in the place of Mons. 
de Monsoreau, I also would have 
saved your daughter, innocent and 
lovely as she is, and, by that God 
who hears me, I would not have 
claimed any payment for the service.” 
“ He loved her,” said Mons. de 
Meridor, who could not perceive him- 
self all the odiousness of the conduct 
of Mons. de Monsoreau ; “ and much 
must be pardoned to love.” 


“ And I, then!” cried Bussy, 

“ shall not I — ?” 

But, frightened at this outburst of 
feeling, which was on the point, in 
spite of himself, of escaping from his 
lips, Bussy stopped short, and it was 
only by the lightning which flashed 
from his eyes, that the phrase, 
which his tongue left unfinished, was 
completed 

Diana understood him, neverthe- 
less, better, perhaps, than if he had 
completed the sentence. 

u Well, ’’said she, blushing, u you 
have understood me, have you not r 
Well, my friend ; well, my brother ; 
you claimed both those titles at my 
hand, and I give them to you. Well, 
my friend, well, my brother, can you 
do anything for me ?” 

“But the Duke of Anjou! the 
Duke of Anjou !” murmured the old 
man, who still heard the thunder, 
which appeared to threaten him, 
groaning in the anger of his Royal 
Highness. 

u I am not one of those,” replied 
| the young man, u Seigneur Augustin, 
who dread the wrath of princes, and I 
am greatly in error, or we have not 
even that wrath to apprehend. If 
you desire it, Mons. de Meridor, I 
can make you the friend of* the prince 
to such a degree, that it is he who 
will protect you from Mons. de Mon- 
soreau, whence comes, believe me, the 
real danger ; an unknown danger, it 
is true, yet a certain danger, invisible, 
and yet, perhaps, inevitable.” 

“ But, if the duke should learn 
that Diana is alive,” said the old 
man, “ all is lost !” 

u Come !” said Bussy, “ 1 see 
clearly that, in spite of all that I can 
say to you, you believe Mons. de 
Monsoreau before me, and more than 
me." Let us say no more of it; re- 
ject my offer, Monsieur, reject the all 
powerful assistance which 1 was about 
to call to your aid. Cast yourself 
into the arms of the man who has so 
well justified your confidence. I have 
said I have performed my task, I have 
nothing more to do. Farewell. 


ISO 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


Seignei * Augustin ; fare you well, 
Madame ; you will never see me 
more, fare you well.” 

u Oh!” cried Diana, seizing the 
young man’s hand ; u have you seen 
me act weakly for one moment ? have 
you seen me change back to favor 
him ? No ; I implore you on my 
knees, Mons. de Bussy, do not aban- 
don me ! do not abandon me !” 

Bussy pressed the fair suppliant 
hands of Diana, and all his anger fell, 
as the snow melts which falls upon 
the mountain’s brow, before the warm 
smile of the bright May sunshine. 

u Since it is thus, Madame,” said 
Bussy, u I do so willingly. Yes, I 
accept the holy mission which you 
impose upon me ; and, before three 
days have passed — for it is necessary 
that I rejoin the prince, who, as they 
tell me, is on a pilgrimage at Char- 
tres with the King — before three days 
have past, you shall see again whether 
I will lose my name of Bussy.” 

And approaching her in a state of 
excitement which inflamed both his 
eye and his breath : 

u We are allies,” he said in a whis- 
per, “ against the Monsoreau. Re- 
member that it is not he who brought 
back your father to you, and be not 
perfidious.” 

And pressing the baron’s hand once 
more for the last time, he darted out 
of the room. 


CHAPTER IV 

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT AWOKE, 
AND OF THE RECEPTION WHICH HE 
MET WITH FROM THE SUPERIOR OF 
HIS CONVENT 

We left our friend Chicot in a fit of 
ecstatic admiration at the uninter- 
rupted sleep and splendid snoring of 
brother Gorenflot; he made a sign to 
Hie innkeeper to withdraw, and carry 
away the lights, after having urged it 
upon him strongly not to say % word 


to the worthy brother, of the walk 
which he had taken abroad, at ten 
o’clock, or of his return at three 
o’clock in the morning. 

As Master Bonhomet had observed 
one thing, namely, that in the rela- 
tions which existed between the fool 
and the monk, it was always the fool 
who paid ; he entertained the highest 
consideration for the fool, while, on 
the contrary, he had but a very small 
degree of veneration for the monk. 

He, therefore, promised Chicot that 
he would not, under any circum- 
stances, open his mouth to any per- 
son touching the events of the night, 
and then withdrew, leaving the two 
friends in darkness, as he had been 
commanded to do. 

Ere long, Chicot observed some- 
thing which greatly excited his admi- 
ration, that brother Gorenflot was 
snoring and talking at the same time, 
a fact which went to indicate not a 
conscience overcharged with remorse, 
but a stomach overcharged with food. 

The words which Gorenflot pro- 
nounced in his sleep, when placed in 
juxtaposition ‘one with another, 
formed a hideous medley of sacred 
eloquence and Bacchanalian maxims. 

Chicot, however, was not long in 
discovering, that if he remained in 
total darkness, he should have great 
difficulty in effecting the restitu- 
tion, which it was necessary that he 
should make to brother Gorenflot, in 
order that he should not suspect any- 
thing. In fact, he might easily 
chance, in that total darkness, to 
tread upon some one of the four 
limbs of the monk, which were spread 
abroad in all directions, and thus, by 
dint of pain, arouse him from his le- 
thargy. 

Chicot blew, then, a little upon the 
charcoal in the brazier, so as to cast a 
faint glimmering over the scene. 

At the sound of his breath Goren- 
flot ceased to snore, and began to 
murmur : 

u My brethren ! Lo, a fierce 
wind ! It is the breath of the Lord 
[ His breath inspires me !” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


181 


And lie began to snore again. 

Chicot awaited until sleep should 
Dave resumed its influence over him, 
and began to unswathe the monk. 

u Brrr-ou,” said Gorenflot. u How 
cold it is ; it will prevent the grapes 
from growing ripe.” 

Chicot paused for a moment in his 
operations, but recommenced them a 
moment afterward. 

u You know my zeal, my breth- 
ren,” continued the monk, u all for 
the church, and Monseigneur the 
Duke de Guise.” 

u Filth of the gutter that thou 
art,” muttered Chicot. 

u That is my opinion,” resumed 
Gorenflot ; u but it is certain” — 
u What is certain ?” asked Chicot, 
lifting the monk up, in order to pass 
his gown under him. 

u It is certain that man is stronger 
than wine. Brother Gorenflot has 
fought against wine, as brother Jacob 
fought against the angel : and brother 
Gorenflot has conquered wine.” 
Chicot shrugged up his shoulders. 
That ill-timed movement caused 
the monk to open one eye, and lean- 
ing over him, he saw Chicot’s smiling 
face, which appeared to him livid and 
sinister in that dubious and wavering 
light. 

u Oh ! let us have no phantoms ! no, 
let us have no hobgoblins !” said the 
monk, as if he had been complaining 
to some familiar demon, who had for- 
gotten the terms agreed upon between 
them. 

u «He is dead drunk !” said Chicot, 
finishing his task of rolling him up in 
his robe, and drawing down his hood 
over his head. 

u Ah ! that is well,” grumbled the 
monk. u The sacristan has shut the 
church door, and the wind does not 
come in any longer.” 

u Now awaken if you will,” said 
Chicot, u it is all one to me.” 

u The Lord has heard my prayer,” 
mumbled the monk, u and the north 
wind which he had sent to freeze the 
vines, is changed to a soft western 
breeze.” 


u Amen !” said Chicot. 

And having made himself a pillow 
of the napkins, and a sheet of the ta- 
ble cloth, after arranging the dirty 
plates and bottles as naturally as he 
could, he composed himself to sleep 
by the side of his companion. 

The broad day which shone upon 
his eyes, and the harsh voice of the 
host scolding his scullions, and re- 
echoing from the kitchen, succeeded at 
length in dissipating the dense lethar- 
gic vapors which brooded so heavily 
over the ideas of Gorenflot. 

He raised himself up, and by the 
aid of both his hands, succeeded in 
establishing himself on that part of 
his person to which nature, in her 
kind providence, has assigned the 
preponderance, as the centre of gra- 
vity in man. 

This effort accomplished, not with- 
out difficulty, Gorenflot applied him- 
self to the consideration of the signi- 
ficant position of the plates and 
glasses, whereupon Chicot who had 
so arranged himself, thanks to a 
graceful turn of one of his arms, as 
to observe every motion of the monk, 
to the very slightest — Chicot, we say, 
began to snore, and that with an in- 
tonation so natural, that it did no 
small honor to his extraordinary tal- 
ent for imitation, of which we have 
already spoken. 

“ Broad day!” cried the monk. 
u Corbleu ! broad day ! It seems 
that 1 must have passed the night 
here.” 

Then collecting his ideas : 

“ And the Abbey !” he continued, 
u Oh ! oh ! what shall I do !” 

And he began to draw the cord 
tighter about the waist of his gown, 
a care which Chicot had not consi- 
dered it necessary to take. 

u It is all over !” said he, U I have 
had a strange dream. I thought that. 
I was dead, and wrapped in a blood- 
stained shroud.” 

Gorenflot was but half mistaken. 
When he had been partially aroused 
before, he had mistaken the table- 
cloth in which he was wrapped, for a 


182 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


•win ding- sheet, and the wine-stains 
for drops of blood. 

u Happily, it was but a dream,” 
said Gorenflot, looking about him 
a second time. 

During this examination, his eyes 
fell upon Chicot, who, discovering 
that the monk was looking at him, 
began to snore with double vigor. 

u What a beautiful thing a drunk- 
en man is !” said Gorenflot, contem- 
plating Chicot in profound admira- 
tion. 

u Is he not happy,” added he, u at 
being able to sleep so ? Ah ! it is all 
because he is not in my position.” 
And he heaved a sigh which rose to 
so high a pitch, that it equalled the 
snoring of the Gascon, and would 
probably have awakened him, if he 
had really been asleep. 

u What if I were to awaken him, 
and ask his advice ? He is a man of 
good counsel.” 

Chicot tripled the dose, and his 
snoring, which was previously as loud 
as the diapason of an organ, now 
passed to the imitation of thunder. 

u No,” resumed Gorenflot, u it 
would give him too many advantages 
over me. I shall find a good lie with- 
out his assistance. And, yet, let the 
lie be what it may,” continued the 
monk, u 1 shall have hard work to 
escape the dungeon. It is not pre- 
cisely the dungeon that I care about, 
but the bread and water which are 
the consequence of it. If I only had 
some money, wherewith to seduce the 
brother gaoler.” 

When Chicot heard this, he cun- 
ningly drew out a tolerably fat purse 
from his pocket, and concealed it 
under his btdly. 

It was by no means a useless pre- 
caution. Now more contrite than ever, 
Gorenflot approached his friend, and 
muttered these melancholy words : 
u If he were awake, he would not 
refuse me a crown ; ] u f his sleep is 
sacred to me, and I will take it.” 

At these words, brother Gorenflot, 
who had remained for a certain time 
in a sitting posture, contrived to get 


upon his knees, and now crawling up 
to Chicot, leaned over him with the 
utmost delicacy, and began to fumble 
gently in the sleeper’s pocket. 

Chicot did not esteem it necessary, 
notwithstanding the example set him 
by his companion, to make any ap- 
peal to his familiar demon, and suffered 
him to rummage his pockets at his plea- 
sure, one after the other. 

u This is singular,” said the monk, 
u nothing in his pockets. Ah ! per- 
haps it is in his hat.” 

While the monk was thus busy in 
quest of plunder, Chicot emptied his 
purse into his hand, and replaced it 
in his breeches pocket, empty and 
flat. 

u Nothing in his hat !” said the 
monk, u that surprises me. My 
friend Chicot, who is a fool full of 
the soundest reason, never leaves 
home without money. Ah ! ancient 
Gaul !” he added with a grin that 
enlarged his mouth from ear to ear, 
u I had forgotten thy breeches.” 

And slipping his hand into Chicot’s 
breeches-pocket, he drew out the 
empty purse. 

u Jesu !” he murmured, u and the 
scot, who will pay it ?” 

This thought produced the deepest 
impression on the monk’s mind, for 
he instantly got upon his feet, and 
although his gait was still slightly 
under the influence of wine, he set off 
at a round pace, steered his way to 
the kitchen, passed through it without 
entering into conversation with the 
landlord, in spite of all the attempts 
of that worthy, and betook himself 
to his heels. 

Then Chicot replaced the money in 
his pocket, and resting his elbow on 
the sill of the window, through which 
a bright sunbeam was shining, he 
soon forgot Gorenflot, in a deep me- 
ditation. 

Nevertheless the mendicant brother, 
with his wallet on his shoulder, pur 
sued his road with a c mposed <|puiite- 
nance, and an expression which might 
appear to the early passengers to be 
that of devotion, but which, in truth, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


183 


was only deep thought, for Gorenflot 
was in truth hunting up one of those 
magnificent lies, peculiar to the 
monk of merry humor, or to the sol- 
dier too late for the roll-call ; one of 
those lies, the woof of which is ever 
the same, while the warp is capri- 
ciously entwined according to the 
taste of the liar. 

As far off as brother Gorenflot 
could see the convent gates, so far off 
did they seem to him darker and 
gloomier than their wont. And he 
drew fearful omens from the presence 
of two or three monks, conversing on 
the threshold, and gazing anxiously 
to the four corners of the firmament. 

But scarcely had he cleared the 
corner of the Rue Saint-J acques, before 
a great movement, made by all the 
monks at once, on the very instant in 
which they perceived him, gave him 
one of the most horrid frights he ever 
had experienced in his life. 

u It is of me they are talking,” 
said he to himself. u They are point- 
ing to me. They are waiting for me. 
I have been sought after, during the 
night. My absence has made a scan- 
*dal ; I am done for V 

And his head turned, and a frantic 
idea of flight came across him ; but 
several monks were already coming 
forward to meet him. He would 
unquestionably be pursued. Now, 
brother Gorenflot did himself no 
more than justice. He was not a fig- 
ure cut out for running. He would 
be overtaken, tied hand and foot, and 
dragged back to the convent. He 
preferred resignation, therefore. 

He advanced, therefore, sad and 
downcast toward his companions, 
who seemed to hesitate about ad- 
dressing him. 

Cj 

u Alas !” said Gorenflot, u they are 
pr 'tending not to see me. lam but 
a stumbling-block.” 

At length one of them determined 
to run the risk, and coming up to 
Gorenflot, said ; 

4,4 Alas ! poor dear brother !” 
Gorenflot heaved a deep sigh, and 
rolled up his eyes toward heaven 


u You know that the prior await 3 
you ?” said another. 

44 Ah ! Mordieu /” 

44 Ah ! Mordieu! yes,” added a 
third. 44 He gave orders that the 
moment you should re-enter the col- 
lege, you should 1 be conducted to 
him.” 

44 That is exactly what I feared,” 
said Gorenflot, more dead than alive, 
and with the words, he entered the 
convent, the gate of which instantly 
closed behind him. 

44 Ah ! it i3 you,” said the brother 
porter. 44 Come, quick, quick, th«y 
reverend prior, Joseph Foula, has ask- 
ed for you.” 

And the brother porter, taking Go- 
renflot by the hand, led, or rathei 
dragged him to the prior’s chamber. 

Here, again,* the doors were closed 
behind him. 

Gorenflot lowered his eyes, fearful 
of meeting the angry glance of the Ab- 
bot. He felt himself alone, abandon- 
ed by all the world, alone with a su- 
perior, irritated, and what was yet 
more, irritated justly. 

u Ah, it is you, at length !” said 
the Abbot. 

44 My Reverend” — stammered tho 
monk. 

44 How much uneasiness you have 
caused to us !” said the prior. 

44 Your goodness is too great, my 
father,” returned Gorenflot, who was 
more puzzled than ever by the in- 
dulgence with which he was received. 

44 You were afraid tG return to the 
convent, after the scene of last night, 
were you not ?’ 

44 I confess that I was afraid to re- 
turn,” said the monk, from whose 
brow the sweat was dripping as cold 
as ice. 

44 Ah ! dear brother ! dear brother! 
That which you have done wag very 
imprudent, and very young !” 

44 Suffer me to explain to you, my 
father,” said Gorenflot. 

1 4 . 

44 What need is there of any expla- 
nation r — your outbreak” — 

44 It is so much the better, if there 
be no occasion why 1 should explain 


184 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 




it to you, for, in truth, I should have 
been embarrassed to do so,” said Go- 
renflot. 

' 44 I understand it perfectly — a mo- 
ment of zealous fervor, of enthusiasm, 
carried you away. Fervor is a sacred 
virtue ; enthusiasm is a holy senti- 
ment * but virtues, when carried too 
far, become almost vices ; and the 
most noble sentiments, exaggerated, 
become reprehensible.” 

44 Pardon me, my father,” said Go- 
renflot, 44 but if you will hear me, I 
do not exactly comprehend you. Of 
what outbreak are you speaking ?” — 
44 Of that which you made last 
night.” 

44 Out of the convent ?” asked the 
monk, timidly. 

44 Certainly not. In the convent.” 
44 Did I make an outbreak in the 
convent ? — I ?” 

44 Yes, you.” 

Gorenflot scratched the end of his 
nose. He began to perceive that he 
and the prior were playing at cross 
questions and crooked answers. 

44 1 am as good a Catholic as you, 
but for all that, your audacity shock- 
ed me.” 

44 My audacity!” said Gorenflot. 
44 Was I audacious, then ?” — 

44 More than audacious, my son, 
you were rash.” 

44 Alas ! you should make allow- 
ance for the starts of a temperament 
not fully disciplined. I will correct 
myself, my father.” 

44 Yes. But in the meantime, I 
cannot help fearing, both on * c- 
count and ours, the co r f 

this outbreak. If it 
among ourselves alone, A 
have signified so much.” 

44 What ?” said Gorenfh Joey 

all the world know about it . 

44 Surely you are aware tin r 
were above a hundred laymen p, 
who did not lose a syllable ol 
discourse.” 

44 Of my discourse ?” said Gon 
fiot, yet more and more astonishes 
44 1 confess to you that it was ver) 

fine. I admit that it was natural 


that you should have been intoxicated 
with the loud applause, that the gene- 
ral assent your words met might well 
turn your head. But when it went 
to such lengths as your proposing a 
procession through the streets of 
Paris — to such lengths as offering to 
buckle on a cuirass, and to appeal to 
all good Catholics, with a steel -cap on 
you head, and a partizan on your 
shoulder, you must grant that it was 
a little too strong.” 

Gorenflot gazed at the prior with 
eyes, through which gleamed in their 
turns all the various expressions of 
wonder. 

44 Now,” continued the prior, 44 there 
is one mode of reconciling all. This 
religious sap which boils so vigorous- 
ly in your generous heart, would in- 
jure you in Paris, where there are so 
many malicious persons, and so many 
spies. I desire, therefore, that you 
should go and expend it” — 

44 Where, father, where ?” inter- 
rupted Gorenflot, now fully satisfied 
that he was about to be confined to a 
dungeon. 

44 In one of the provinces.” 

44 In exile !” cried Gorenflot. 

44 Were you to remain here, dear 
brother, it might well cost you dan- 
ger.” 

44 What could befall me here ?” 

44 A criminal prosecution, which 
would lead, in all probability, to eter* 
nal imprisonment, if not to death.” 
Gorenflot turned hideously pale. 
He could not for his life comprehend 
how he could have incurred perpetual 
imprisonment, and even death, by get- 
ting drunk in a cabaret, and passing a 
night out of the convent. 

44 While by submitting to this brief 
i *le, my very dear brother, not only 
will escape all danger, but you 
moreover, hoist the standard of 
- n the provinces. That which 
- ’d to-night, dangerous, nay, 
ossible, under the eyes of the 
his accursed minions, be- 
of accomplishment in the 
Set forth, then, as quick 
brother Gorenflot ; per* 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


185 


haps even now it may be too late, and 
the archers may already have received 
orders to arrest you.” 

ic Ah ! my reverend father, what is 
it that you say ?” stammered the 
monk, rolling his eyes with terror, for 
in proportion as he was surprised at 
the mildness with which the friar 
spoke, so was he thunderstruck at the 
vast proportions, which, what he had 
considered a very venial sin, now ap- 
peared to be assuming. u The arch- 
ers ! do you say ? and what have I 
to do with the archers ?” 

u You have nothing to do with 
them, but they may very well have to 
do with you.” 

u Have I been denounced, then ?” 
u I would lay any wager of it. Set 
forth, therefore, depart.” 

u Depart ! my reverend father!” 
said Gorenflot, in dismay, u it is very 
easy to say depart, but on what shall 
I live, when I have departed ?” 

u Oh ! nothing can be easier. Y r ou 
are the mendicant father of our col- 
lege. That will be the means of your 
existence. Of your alms, hitherto, 
you have nourished others ; of your 
alms you shall now nourish yourself. 
Besides, fear nothing, for, Mordieu , the 
system which you have developed, will 
gain you partizans enough in the pro- 
vinces, that I am well assured you will 
want nothing. But go, for the love 
of God, go, and above all do not return 
until you shall be recalled.” 

And the prior, after having em- 
braced brother' Gorenflot tendei'ly, 
pushed him very gently, but with a 
pertinacity which was crowned with 
perfect success, to the door of his cell. 

There the whole community were 
assembled to take leave of brother 
Gorenflot. 

Scarcely had he appeared before 
every one darted upon him, every- 
body wished to kiss his hands, his 
neck, his clothes ; and some there 
were, who carried their devotion so 
far as to kiss the hem of his robe. 

u Adieu,” said one, pressing him to 
bis heart, u adieu ; you are a holy 
man, forget me not in your prayers.” 


u Bah !” said Gorenflot to himself 
— u I a holy man ! I f — go it !” 

u Adieu,” said another clasping 
his hand, u brave champion of the 
faith ; Godfrey of Bouillon was a 
small person when compared with 
you.” 

u Adieu ! martyr,” said a third, 
kissing the end of his rope girdle, 
u blindness still dwells among us, 
but the hour of light shall soon ar- 
rive.” 

And Gorenflot found himself thus 
borne along from hand to hand, from 
embrace to embrace, till he had reach- 
ed the abbey gate, which was closed 
the instant he had crossed the thres- 
hold. 

Gorenflot gazed at that gate with 
an expression which defies descrip- 
tion, and at length crept out of Paris 
backward, as if the exterminating 
angel had brandished the point of his 
fiery sword against him. 

The only words which escaped his 
lips, as he passed the gate, were 
these — 

u May the devil carry me away, if 
they have not all gone mad ; or if 
they have not, mercy, 0 Lord ! for 1 
am so myself.” 


i 

CHAPTER V. 

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT REMAINED 
IN THE CONVICTION THAT HE WAS 
A SOMNAMBULIST, AND HOW BIT 
TERLY HE BEWAILED THAT IN- 
FIRMITY. 

% 

Gorenflot was buried in deep and 
painful meditations, when he saw a 
horseman rising into view at a dis- 
tanco within the Porte Bordelle, who, 
coming up at a gallop, soon made the. 
vaulted masonry resound and clatter 
to his horse’s hoof tramp. 

This man dismounted near a house 
standing, perhaps, a hundred paces 
from the spot at which he was him* 


.86 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


self seated. He knocked, the door 
was opened, and both horse and cava- 
lier passed into the gate of the 
court-yard. 

Gorenflot remarked these circum- 
stances, because he had envied the 
happiness of the cavalier, who, hav- 
ing a horse, of course, had the power 
of selling it. 

But, at the end of a moment, Go- 
renflot saw this cavalier, whom he 
easily recognized by his mantle, come 
forth from the house. There stood, 
at some distance from the house, a 
large clump of trees, and between 
the clump and the house a great 
heap of stones ; and between the 
trees and that new sort of bastion, 
the cavalier went and concealed him- 
self. 

u This is certainly some murderous 
ambush which is in preparation,” 
muttered Gorenflot to himself. u Now 
if I were not an object of so much 
suspicion to the archers, or if I were 
a little nearer than I am, 1 would 
oppose myself to this.” 

At this moment, the man who had 
placed himself in ambush, and whose 
eyes never wandered for a moment 
from the city gates, except to exam- 
ine the adjacent spaces with an air 
of restless curiosity, discovered Go- 
renflot sitting quite motionless, with 
his chin resting on his hand. This 
view, which he caught with one of 
those rapid glances which he cast 
from right to left, seemed to annoy 
him, and he began to walk about, as- 
suming an indifferent and careless air, 
behind the heap of wall stones. 

u Here is a figure, here is an air,” 
muttered Gorenflot to himself; u one 
would say that I ought to kjiow this. 
But no ; it is impossible.” 

At this moment, the unknown, 
whose back was turned to Gorenflot, 
dropped down as suddenly as if his 
knees had given way under him. He 
had heard a sound of horses’ hoofs 
coming up from the city gates. 

In fact, three men, two of whom 
appeared to be lacqueys, three good 
mules and three fat portmanteaus, 


came slowly out of Paris by the Porte 
Bordelle. As soon as he distinguish- 
ed these, the man behind the stones 
made himself as small as possible, 
and creeping, rather than walking, 
made his way toward the clump of 
trees, the largest of which he selected, 
and took post behind it, in the atti- 
tude of a hunter lying in wait for his 
game. 

The cavalcade passed without see- 
ing him, or at least, without remark- 
ing him, while the man in ambush, 
on the contrary, appeared to devour 
them with his eyes. 

u It is I who have hindered the 
commission of the crime,” said Go- 
renflot, u and my presence on this road 
is a manifestation of Divine Provi- 
dence, a manifestation such as that 
which is requisite in order to make 
me eat my breakfast.” 

The cavalcade passed by. The 
man who lay in wait returned into 
the house. 

u Good !” said Gorenflot to him- 
self. u Here is a circumstance which 
will procure for me, unless I am the 
more mistaken, the alms which I re- 
quire. A man who plays the spy 
loves not to be espied upon. This 
is a secret which 1 possess, and were 
it only worth six pennies, at six pen- 
nies 1 will rate it.” 

And without farther delay, Goren- 
flot betook himself to the house, but 
as he drew nighcr to it, he recalled 
to mind the martial air, the long 
strides, and the stout form of the 
cavalier, as well as the long rapier 
which clattered against the calves of 

O 

his legs, and the terrible eye with 
which he gazed on the cavalcade. 

Then he said to himself, u Decided- 
ly 1 am wrong, and such a man as 
that is the last who would suffer him- 
self to be intimidated.” 

At the door Gorenflot was entirely 
convinced of this, and it was no 
Ionizer his nose that he scratched, it 

c « • 

was his ear. 

S.uddcnly his face was lighted up. 
u An idea !” said he. 

It was such an unusual accident 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


187 


the awakening of an idea in tlie le- 
thargic brain of the monk, that he 
Was himself astonished that it had 
occurred. But there was a saying, 
even in those days, that 44 necessity 
was the mother of invention.” 

44 An idea,” he repeated to him- 
self, 44 and what is more, an ingenious 
idea. I will say to him, 4 Monsieur, 
every man has his profits, his de- 
sires, his hopes. I will pray for your 
projects ; give me alms.’ If his pro- 
jects be evil, as I have no doubt they 
are, he will have double need of 
prayers in his behalf, and with that 
intent, he will give me an alms, and 
I will submit the case to the first doc- 
tor I shall meet. I mean I will in- 
quire of him whether it is right to 
pray for the success of projects which 
are unknown to you, when you shall 
have conceived evil doubts concern- 
ing those projects. Whatever the 
doctor shall tell me, that I will do. 
Consequently, it will be he, and no 
longer I who shall be responsible. 
And if I should not meet a doctor ? 
Well, if I should not meet a doctor, 
1 will abstain, since there is a doubt 
about the question. In the mean- 
time. I shall at least have breakfasted 
/ 

on the charity of this man with bad 
intentions.” 

In consequence of this resolution, 
Gorenflot pressed himself close against 
the wall, and waited. 

Five minutes afterward, the door 
opened, and the horse and the man 
re-appeared, the one carrying the 
other on its back. 

Gorenflot approached them. 

44 Monsieur,” said he, 44 if five pa- 
ters and five aves for the success of 
your projects should be agreeable to 
you” — 

The man turned his head toward 
Gorenflot. 

44 Monsieur Chicot,” cried the 
monk, in utter bewilderment. 

44 Where the devil are you going to, 
in that fashion, gossip r” asked Chi- 
cot. 

44 I do not know ; and you ?” 

44 That is quite a different thing. 


I do know,” said Chicot, 44 I am go- 
ing straight ahead.” 

44 Very far ?” 

44 Until I shall stop. But you, 
gossip, since you cannot tell me 
what you were doing here, I suspect 
something.” 

44 What do you suspect ?” 

44 1 suspect that you are playing 
the spy.” 

44 Jesu, Lord! I playing th e spy. 
The Lord deliver me from it I saw 
you, that is all.” 

44 Saw what ?” 

44 Saw you watching the passage of 
the mules.” 

44 Thou art mad.” 

44 At least I saw you behind those 
stones with watchful eyes.” 

44 Listen, Gorenflot, I am going to 

7 7 0 0 

build myself a house without the 
walls. These wall stones are mine, 
and I was satisfying myself that they 
are of good quality.” 

44 Ah ! that is different,” said the 
monk, who did not believe one sylla- 
ble of that which Chicot had said to 
him, 44 1 was mistaken, that is all.” 

44 But in a word, what are you dfc 
ing outside of the gates ?” 

44 Alas ! Mons. Chicot, I am pro- 
scribed,” said Gorenflot, heaving a 
prodigious sigh. 

44 Ahem !” said Chicot. 

44 Proscribed, I tell you.” 

And Gorenflot gathering his frock 
about him in majestic draperies, 
drew up his short frame and set his 
head on one side with the imperative 
aspect of a man to whom some great 
catastrophe has given a claim upon 
the compassion of his neighbors. 
44 My brethren have cast me forth 
from their bosom,” he continued, 44 I 
am excommunicated, anathematized.” 
44 Bah ! and what is all this about ?” 
44 Listen to me, Monsieur Chicot,” 
said the monk, laying his hand on his 
heart, 44 yo,u will believe me or not, 
as you please, but on the honor of 
Gorenflot, I do not know.” 

44 Will it not be, because you were 
met with last night, running the 
' round of the purlieus ?” 


188 


D1AWA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ Cruel jest,” said Gorenflot. 
“ You know perfectly well what I 
was doing all last night.” 

“ That is to say,” replied Chicot, 
“ I know what you were doing from 
eight o’clock till ten — but not what 
you were doing from ten until three ” 
“ What do you mean by that, from 
ten until three ?” 

“ I mean precisely that. At ten 
o’clock you went out.” 

“I went out!” said Gorenflot, 
staring at Chicot, his eyes dilated 
with surprise. 

“So surely you went out, that I 
asked you whither you were going.” 

“ Whither I was going ? You ask- 
ed me that ?” 

“I did.” 

u And I answered you ?” 

“ You answered me that you were 
going to pronounce a discourse.” 

“ There is some truth in all this, 
after all,” said Gorenflot, who was 
beginning to be somewhat staggered. 

“ Parbleu ! so true is it, that you 
repeated to me part of your discourse. 
It was divided into three heads, that 
is the form which Aristotle recom- 
mends. There were moreover terrible 
things against King Henry the Third 
in that discourse !” 

“ Bah !” said Gorenflot. 
u So terrible that I should not be 
in the least surprised if they were to 
arrest you as the author of sedition.” 
“Monsieur Chicot. You open 
my eyes. Did I seem to be thorough- 
ly awake when I was speaking to you ?’ 
“ I must say, gossip, that it did 
seem to me that there was something 
strange about you. Your eye, espe- 
cially, had something singularly fixed 
in its expression which frightened me. 
One would have said that you were 
awake without being so, and that you 
were talking in your sleep.” 

“ Nevertheless,” said Gorenflot, 
“ I am sure that I awoke this morning 
at the Corne d’Abondance, if the de- 
vil were in it.” 

“ What is there wonderful in 
that ?” 

“ How- ? What is there astonishing, 


when you tell me that I went out at 
ten o’clock, from that very Corne d* 
Abondance !” 

“Yes, but you came in again at 
three o’clock, and I can give you a 
proof of it, I will even tell you that 
you left the door open, and that I 
was extremely cold.” 

“ I was cold also,” said Gorenflot, 
“ I remember that.” 

u Well then, you see !” replied 
Chicot. 

“ If what you tell me is true ?” 

“ How ? If what I tell you is 
true — it is truth itself! ask Maitre 
Bonhomet, if you will.’’ 

“ Maitre Bonhomet ?’’ — 

“ Certainly ! It was he who let 
you in. I ought to tell you also that 
you were terribly puffed up with pride 
on your return, and that I said to 
you, 4 Fie, gossip, fie ! pride does 
not become a man, especially when 
that man is a monk.” 

44 And of what was I proud ?” 

44 Of the success which your dis- 
course had met, of the compliments 
which had been paid you by the 
Duke de Guise, the Cardinal, and 
Mons. the Duke de Mayenne whom 
may God preserve !” added the Gas- 
con, lifting his hat. 

44 All is explained to me now!” 
said Gorenflot. 

44 It is very fortunate, you must ad- 
mit, that you were present at that 
assembly — what the devil do you call 
it ? — wait a moment. The assembly 
of the Holy Union ; that is it.” 
Gorenflot let his head fall on his 
breast, and drew a long sigh, which 
was almost a groan. 

44 1 am a somnambulist,” he said. 
44 I have suspected as much a long 
time. ” 

44 Somnambulist r” asked Chicot, 
“ what does that mean ?” 

44 That means, Mons. Chicot, that, 
in me, the spirit is so far superior 
to the matter, that, while the matter 
lies dormant, the spirit wakes, and, 
at such times, the spirit commands 
the matter, which, fast asleep as it is, 
is still compelled to obey the spirit.” 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


44 Ah ! gossip,” said Chicot, 44 that | 
Bounds very much like some kind of 
magic. If you are possessed, tell me 
so frankly. A man who walks in his 
sleep, who gesticulates in his sleep, 
who delivers sermons, in which he at- 
tacks the King, still in his sleep — 
ventre de biche ! — that is unnatural. 
Get thee behind me, Beelzebub ! 
Vade retro , Sat anas /” 

And Chicot gave a great jump in 
his saddle. 

44 Thus,” said Gorenflot, 44 you are 
also abandoning me, Mons. Chicot. 
Tu quoque y Brute. Ah ! ah ! I should 
never have believed that of you.” 

And the monk, in the depth of his 
despair, attempted to modulate a fit 
of sobbing. 

Chicot took pity on this fit of im- 
mense despair, which appeared only 
the more terrible because it was con- 
centrated. 

44 Let me «ee,” said he, 44 what is 
all this that you have told me ?” 

44 When do you mean ?” 

44 Just now.” 

44 Alas ! I do not know, I am ready 
to go mad. My head is full, and my 
stomach empty ; set me on the track, 
Mons. Chicot.” 

44 Ah ! you said something to me 
of travelling.” 

44 Yes ! truly. The reverend father 
invited me to go and travel.” 

44 In what direction ?” asked Chicot. 
44 In any direction that should 
seem good to me,” replied the monk. 
44 And you are going ?” 

44 I do not know.” Gorenflot 
raised his two hands to heaven : 
44 For the love of the Lord !” said he, 
44 Monsieur Chicot, lend me two 
crowns, to help me to make my jour- 
ney.” 

44 I will do better than that,” said 
Chicot. 

44 Ah ! come, what will you do ?” 

44 I told you that I am travelling 
myself.” 

44 That is true. You told me 
60 .” 

44 Well, I will take you with me.” 
Gorenflot looked at the Gascon 


with distrust, like a man who cannot 
believe in such a piece of luck. 

44 But, on condition only, that you 
will be extremely prudent, in return 
for which I will allow you to be ex- 
tremely gluttonous. Do you accept 
my proposition ?” 

44 Do I accept it cried the monk. 
44 Do I accept it ? But have we 
money enough for our travelling ex- 
penses ?” 

44 Look you,” said Chicot, drawing 
out a long purse, which swelled grace- 
fully outward from the very neck. 
Gorenflot actually jumped for joy. 
44 How much ?” said he. 

44 Five hundred pistoles.” 

44 And whither are we going ?” 

44 You shall see, gossip.” 

44 And when shall we breakfast ?” 
44 Immediately.” 

44 But on what shall I ride ?” asked 
Gorenflot, with some anxiety. 

44 Not on my horse, Corbozuf, you 
will kill him.” 

44 Then,” said Gorenflot, greatly 
disappointed ; 44 what is to be 

done ?” 

44 Nothing more simple. You have 
a huge belly, like Silenus. Like him 
you are a drunkard. Well, in order 
to make the resemblance perfect, I 
will buy you an ass.” 

44 You are my king, Mons. Chicot. 
You are my son. Get rather a strong 
ass — you are my god. Now, where 
shall we breakfast ?” 

44 Here, Morbleu! even here ! Look 
over that door, and read, if you know 
how to read.” 

In fact, they had reached the door 
of a sort of little wavside inn, and 
following the direction of Garepflot’s 
finger, he read : 

44 Here are sold, Ham, Eggs, Eel 
Pies, and White Wine.” 

It would be difficult to explain the 
revolution which took place on Go- 
renflot’s face, as he read this. His 
countenance expanded, his eyes twin- 
kled, his mouth opened so far as to 
display a double row of white and 
hungry teeth. At length, he raised 
his two arms on high, in token of gra- 


wo 


DIANA OF ME RID OR; OR, 

. 

titude, and, balancing his huge body, 1 cific ass, which was the height of Go* 


as it were m cadence, he shouted the 
following song, the only excuse for 
which must be looked for in his in- 
tense delight : 

“ When the bridle’s unbuckled, 

The bottle set going, 

The ass pricks his ear up, 

The wine is o’erflowing. 

But the bottle’s more sober, 

Than the monk in October; 

And the ass is less free 
Than the monk on a spree !” 

u Well said !” cried Chicot, “ and, 
that we may lose no time, sit down 
at once to table, my dear brother. 
I will order a good breakfast for you, 
and then go seek you an ass.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT JOURNEYED 
UPON AN ASS, WHICH WAS CALLED 
PANURGE. 

That which rendered Chicot so indif- 
ferent to the welfare of his own sto- 
mach, for, fool as he was, or as he boast- 
ed to be, he had as ifiuch regard for 
it as any monk, was the fact that, be- 
fore he left the hostelry of the Corne 
d’Abondance, he had stowed away a 
copious breakfast. 

Then great passions are nourishing, 
and, according to all that is said, 
Chicot was possessed at this moment I 
a great passion. He installed | 
brother Gorenflot, therefore, at a ta- 
ble in the little inn, whereat ham, 
eggs and wine were served up to him 
through a sort of turning-box ; and 
the monk set about despatching them 
with his wonted celerity and expedi- 
tion. 

Chicot, in the meantime, had gone 
out into the neighborhood, to pur- 
chase an ass, of which his com- 
panion stood so greatly in need. He 
found, ere long, in the possession of 
some peasants from Sceaux, that pa- 


renflot’s ambition, harnessed between 
an ox and a horse. This ass was four 
years old, was of a color inclining to 
brown, had a short punchy body, set 
upon four legs as slender as spindles. 
At that time an ass was worth twenty 
francs. Chicot gave twenty-two, and 
was blessed for his munificence. 

When Chicot returned with his 
purchase, and brought it with him 
into the very room in which Gorenflot 
was dining, — Gorenflot, who had just 
absorbed half an eel pie, and emptied 
his third bottle, — the worthy monk 
kindled to enthusiasm by the sight of 
the animal, and moreover, predispoa 
ed by the fumes of the generous wine 
to all tender sentiments, the worth} 
monk, I say, leaped on the neck of 
his ass, and after having kissed it first 
on one jaw then on the other, intro- 
duced a large slice of bread between 
the two, which set the animal braying 
for pleasure. 

u Oh ! oh !” cried Gorenflot, u here 
is an animal with a delicious voice ; 
we will sometimes sing together in 
chorus. Thanks ! my friend Chicot, 
thanks !” 

And he immediately baptized his 
ass by the name of Panurge. 

Chicot cast a glance toward the 
empty table, and perceived that with- 
out any imputation of tyranny, he 
might require his companion to wait 
till dinner time, without laying in 
any further supplies. He said, there- 
fore, in a tone of voice to which Go- 
renflot could not easily demur. 

u Come, let us set forth, gossip ; 
let us set forth. At Melun we will 
get some luncheon.” 

The tone of Chicot was so impera- 
tive, and into the very heart of his 
cruel command Chicot had contrived 
to introduce so pleasant a promise, 
that instead of making any objection, 
Gorenflot repeated : u Let us set forth ! 
Let us set forth !” 

And without any further delay, 
Gorenflot, by the assistance of a 
chair, hoisted himself up on his ass, 
which was saddled only with a plain 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


191 


leather pad, whence depended two | 
thongs, in lieu of stirrups. The 
monk thrust his sandalled feet into 
the thongs, took the halter of the ass 
in his left hand, planted his right upon 
his hip, and rode forth from the 
inn as majestically as the god to whom 
Chicot had not irreverently likened 
him. 

As for Chicot, he bestrode his horse 
with the coolness of a consummate 
cavalier, and the two riders took the 
joad to Lyons, at a gentle trot. 
A little way beyond Chalons, Chicot 
overtook Master Nicholas David, 
still, as before, disguised as a lacquey, 
nor did he lose sight of him until 
they reached Lyons, the gates of 
which the three men entered, on the 
night of the eighth day after their de- 
parture from Paris. 

This was a little later than the 
time at which, following a different 
route, Bussy, Saint-Lue, and his wife, 
arrived, as we have already shown, at 
the chateau of Meridor. 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOW CHICOT AND HIS COMPANION 
WERE INSTALLED IN THE HOSTELRY 
OF THE CYGNE DE LA CROIX, AND 
HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY MINE 
HOST. 

Master Nicholas David, still dis^uis- 
ed as a lacquey, directed his steps 
toward the Place des Terreaux, and 
chose the principal hostelry of the 
town, which was that of the Cygne de 
la Croix. 

Chicot observed him enter, and re- 
mained for a few moments on the 
watch, in order to make sure that he 
had obtained lodgings, and that he 
was not coming out again. 

o o 

u Have you any objection to the 
hostelry of the Cygne de la Croix?” 
he asked of his comrade. 

44 Not the smallest,’ replied he. 


44 You will go into it You will 
inquire the price of a retired chamber. 
Y ou will say that you are waiting for 
your brother ; and you will, in fact, 
wait for me, on the threshold of the 
door. I am going to take a walk, and 
I shall not return home* until night 
has fallen. Then I shall return ; I 
shall find you at your post, and as you 
will have played the sentinel, by 
that hour you will know the plan of 
the whole house, and will conduct me 
to the room you shall have chosen, 
without my chancing to run against 
people whom I do not want to see. Do 
you understand me ?” 

44 Perfectly,” said Gorenflot. 

44 Choose a large room, pleasant, 
airy, easy of access ; contiguous, if 
possible, to that of the stranger who 
has just entered. Let it have win- 
dows looking out upon the street, in 
order to see who comes in and goes 
out ; do not pronounce my name on 
any pretext, and promise the cook 
mountains of gold.” 

44 All this shall be done.” 

In fact, Gorenflot acquitted himself 
admirablv of his commission. The 
room was chosen. Night came ; and 
when it was fully come, he went and 
took Chicot by the hand, and led him 
to the chamber in question. The 
monk, cunning, as all churchmen are — * 
besides which, he was in fact, cunning 
by nature, — pointed it out to Chicot, 
that their room, although situated on 
a different landing-place from that of 
Nicholas David, was, nevertheless, 
contiguous to it, and that being sepa- 
rated from it only by a partition of 
wood and plaster, there would be no 
difficulty in making an opening into 
it, if desirable. 

Chicot listened to the monk with 
the deepest attention, and had any 
one heard the orator, and seen the 
auditor, he would have remarked the 
joyous expression on the features of 
the one, which followed the words of 
the other. 

Then, when the monk had done 
speaking : 

44 All that you have done merits a 


192 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


good recompense,” replied Chicot. 
u Y ou shall have Sherry wine to-night 
for supper, Gorenflot. You shall have 
it, morbleu! or I am not your gossip.” 

u I am not acquainted with drunk- 
enness, the result of that wine,” said 
Gorenflot. u It ought to be pleas- 
ant.” 

u Ventre de biche /” replied Chicot, 
as he took possession of the apart- 
ment, u you shall be acquainted with 
it in less than two hours from this 
time. It is I who tell you so.” 

And the monk left the room with 
his gown tucked up on one side, and 
a crown in his pocket. The crown 
was a gift from Chicot. 

Scarcely was Gorenflot out of the 
room, when Chicot, without losing a 
second of time, produced a gimlet, 
and made a hole in the ’partition at 
the height of his eye from the ground. 
This opening, as large as that of a 
sarbacand, did not, on account of the 
thickness of the planks, allow him 
distinctly to see the different parts of 
P ^om ; but, on laying his ear to 
the partition, he could hear all that 
passed very distinctly. 

Nevertheless, by the accidental po- 
sition of the persons in the room at 
the moment when he looked through 
the hole, it so fell out that Chicot 
was enabled distinctly to observe the 
face of the landlord who was talking 
with Nicholas David 

A few words had escaped Chicot’s 
ear, but from what reached him of the 
conversation, he easily discovered that 
Maitre Nicholas was making a great 
display of his fidelity to the King, and 
was speaking of a mission which had 
been entrusted to him by Monsieur de 
Morvilliers. 

While he was speaking the land- 
lord listened, respectfully enough, it 
is true, but with an expression which, 
to say the least of it, denoted indif- 
ference. Chicot even fancied that he 
could discover something, whether in 
his looks or in the intonation of his 
voice, which savored pretty strongly 
of irony, so often as the name of the 
King was pronounced. 


£ * Ah ha !” said Chicot to himself 
u It may be that our host is a Leaguei 
by chance. Mordieu ! I will soon learn 
that.” 

And as nothing was passing o. 
much importance in the Maitre Nicho 
las David’s chamber, Chicot awaited 
the time when the host should come 
in his turn to visit him. 

At length the door opened. 

The landlord held his cap in his 
hand, but he had still that bantering 
expression of countenance, which had 
struck Chicot in the first instance, 
while he was conversing with the ad- 
vocate. 

u Sit down, there, my dear Mon- 
sieur,” said Chicot, u and before mak- 
ing a definitive arrangement, listen, 
if you please, to my story.” 

The landlord seemed to listen with 
an unfavorable ear to this exordium, 
and soon made a gesture with his 
head as if to indicate that he preferred 
standing up. 

u Pray, be at your ease, my dear 
Monsieur,” replied Chicot. 

The host made another sign, as 
much as to say, that he required no 
man’s permission to take his ease. 

u Y"ou have seen me with a monk,’ 
continued Chicot. 

u Yes, Monsieur,” said the land- 
lord. 

u Hush ! Y r ou must not say a word 
about him. That monk is an out- 
law. ” 

u Bali !” said the landlord. u Is 
he a Huguenot in disguise, then ?” — 

Chicot assumed an air of injured 
dignity. u Huguenot !” said he, with 
deep disgust. u Who said anything 
about a Huguenot ? Know that this 
monk is my kinsman, and 'that I have 
no kinsmen Huguenots. Beally, my 
good fellow, you should blush to say 
such atrocities !” 

u Ah ! Monsieur,” resumed the 
landlord, u such things have been 
seen, however.” 

u Never in my family, Seigneur 
landlord ! This monk is, on the con- 
trary, as deadly an enemy to the 
Huguenots as ever was let loose against 

c o 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


193 


them ; so that he has fallen in dis- 
£race with his Majesty, Henry the 
Third, who protects them, as you 
£now.” 

The landlord appeared now to be 
beginning to take a lively interest in 
Gorenflot’s persecution. 

u Silence, 5 ’ said he, laying his fin- 
ger to his lips. 

u What do you mean by i silence ?”’ 
asked Chicot, u have you by chance 
some of the King’s people here ?” 
u I am afraid so,” said the land- 
lord, with a nod of affirmation. 
u Next door to you there, there is a 
traveller.” 

u If that be the case, we will make 


our escape at once,” said Chicot, 
u my relation and I ; for being pro- 
scribed, and menaced — ” 

“ And whither will you go ?” in- 
terrupted the landlord. 

u We have two or three directions, 
which an innkeeper has given us to 
friends of his, Master La Huriere, by 
name.” 

u Do you know La Huriere ?” 
u Hush ! you must not speak so 
loud. But we made acquaintance 
with him on the night of Saint Bar- 
tholomew’s.” 

a Come, come,” said the ^ land- 
lord, u I see that both of you, your 
kinsman and yourself, are worthy 
people. I also am acquainted with 
La Huriere. 1 even wished, when I 
was buying this hostelry, to take the 
same sign with him in testimony of 
my friendship, c A la belle Etoile,’ 
but the hostelry was known under the 
denomination of the hostelry du Cygne 
de la Croix. I was afraid that any 
alteration would be a cause of loss to 
me. Therefore, you say, Monsieur, 
that your kinsman — - — ” 

4t Has been so imprudent as to 
preach against the Huguenots, has 
had wonderful success, and that his 
very Christian Majesty* furious at his 
success, which revealed to him the dis- 
position of men’s minds, is in search 
of him for the purpose of imprisoning 
him.” 

“ And what then ?” asked the 

13 


landlord, with an expression of in- 
terest so strong that it could not be 
mistaken. 

u Upon my word, I carried him off 
from his pursuers.” 

u And you did well so to do, poor 
dear man.’’ 

u Monsieur de Guise had offered 
him his protection.” 

u What, the great Henry of Guise ? 
Henry with the Scar 
u Henry the Holy.” 
u Yes, you have said it, Henry the 
Holy.” 

u But I feared to excite a civil 
war.’’ 

u Then,” said the landlord, “ if 
you are a friend of Monsieur de Guise, 
you know this.” And he made a 
sort of masonic sign of the hand, by 
aid of which the Leaguers recognized 
one another. 

Chicot, during the famous night 
which he had passed in the convent 
of Saint Genevieve, had remarked 
not only the sign, which had been re- 
peated twenty times in his presence, 
but the countersign which formed the 
reply to it. 

u Parbleu!” said he, u and you 
this.” 

And Chicot, in his turn, made the 
second sign to the landlord. 

“Then,” said the landlord, with 
the most entire abandonment, u you 
are here as in your own house. My 
house is yours. Regard me as your 
friend, I regard you as my brother, 
and if you have no money — ” 

Chicot interrupted him by pulling 
out as his sole reply, a purse, which, 
in spite of the inroads he had made 
upon it, still displayed an honorable 
rotundity. ✓ 

The sight of a jolly round purse is 
always agreeable, even to the gene- 
rous man who offers you money, and 
learns that you do not require it, so 
that he retains the merit, without 
suffering the inconvenience of hia 
offer. 

“ Well,” said the host. 

“ I will inform you farther, in order 
perfectly to set you a£ your case. 


DIANA MERIDOR; OR, 


194 

>. 

that we ate travelling for the propa- 
gation of the faith, and that all our 
expenses are made good by the treas- 
urer of the Holy Union. Show us,, 
therefore, an inn where we can tarry 
in safety.” 

ii ParbleuP ’ said the host, u there 
is no place in which you can tarry 
more safely than here, gentlemen. It 
is I who tell you so.” 

U -But you spoke of a man who is 
lodging there, next door.” 

■ u Yes, hut let him behave himself, 
for on the first attempt at espials, he 
shall be out of my house, on the 
honor of Bernouillet.” 

u Is your name Bernouillet ?’’ asked 
Chicot- 

u It is my veritable name, Mon- 
sieur, and it is well known to all the 
faithful, not perhaps in the capital, 
but assuredly in the province. I boast 
myself of it, too. Say, therefore, one 
word, only one, and he walks out of 
the door.” 

u Wherefore so ?’’ said Chicot. 
u Leave him here by all means, on 
the contrary. Better for one to have 
his enemies close by him. Then, at 
the worst, he can watch them.’’ 
u You are right,” said Bernouillet, 
with great admiration. 

u But what makes you believe this 
man to be our enemy ? I say our 
enemy,” continued the Gascon with a 
tender smile, “ because I see that we 
are brothers.” 

u Oh yes ; certainly we are,” said 
the landlord. u What makes me 
suppose — ” 

u That is what I ask you.” 

“ Because, when he first came here, 
he was disguised as a lacquey. Then 
he assumed the dress of an advocate ; 
now, he is' neither advocate nor lac- 
quey, for just now under a cloak 
wdiich he had thrown upon a chair, I 
saw the end of a long rapier protrud- 
ing. Then he spoke much of the 
King, as no one speaks of him now ; 
and, to crown all, he has confessed to 
me that he is on a mission for Mon- 
tieur de Morvilliers, who is, as you 


know, one of the ministers of tK* 
Nebuchadnezzar — ” 

u Of Herodes, as I call him.’’ 
u Of Sardanapalus !” 
u Bravo !” 

. u Ah, I see that we understand 
each other,” said the landlord. 

u Pardieu /” said Chicot, u then 
here I stay.” 

u I believe you will.” 
u But not a word of my kinsman.” 
u Pardieu /” 
u Nor of me ?” 

u What do you take me for ? But 
silence! Here comes some one.” 
Gorenflot appeared on the thresh- 
old. 

u Oh, it is he, the worthy man ! ” 
cried the landlord. 

And he ran up to the monk, and 
made him the sign of the Leaguers. 

The sign struck Gorenflot with 
astonishment and terror. 

u Answer him, brother, answer 
him,” said-Chicot. “ Our host knows 
all, and he belongs to it.” 

u He belongs to it,” said Gorenflot 
u Belongs to what ?” 

“ To the Holy Union,” said Ber- 
nouillet, -in a low voice. 

u You see that you may answer 
him safely. Answer, answer.” 

And Gorenflot did answer the sign, 
which completed the delight of the 

u But,” said Gorenflot, who was in 
a humor to change the conversation, 
u I was promised some Sherry wine.” 
u Sherry wine, Malaga wine, wine 
of Alicant, all the wines in my cellar, 
are at your orders, my brother.” 
Gorenflot turned his gaze from the 
landlord to Chicot, and from Chicot 
to Heaven. He comprehended no- 
thing of what was going on, yet it 
was evident that in his monkish hu- 
mility, he was admitting that his hap- 
piness was greater than his deserts. 

For three days in succession, Go- 
renflot got drunk. The first day 
with Sherry, the second with Mala- 
ga, the third with Alicant ; but of all 
kinds of drunkenness, Gorenflot con- 


195 


THE LADY OP MONSOREATJ. 

% 


fessed that the result of Burgundy 
appeared to him the most agreeable ; 
so he fell back upon Chambertin. 

During these four days which Go- 
renflot had devoted to his winebib- 
bing investigations, Chicot had not 
left his chamber, but had contented 
himself with watching the advocate 
Nicholas David, from morning till 
night. 

The landlord, who attributed Chi- 
cot’s behavior to his fear of the pre- 
tended royalist, made it a duty to 
himself to play the advocate a thou- 
sand tricks. 

But Nicholas David had nothing to 
do there, at least, as far as appearan- 
ces went. But having given Pierre 
de Gondy the rendezvous at the hos- 
telry of the Cygne de la Croix, he 
would not quit his temporary domi- 
cile, for fear the messenger of the 
Messieurs de Guise should not find 
him on his return. In the presence 
of the host, therefore, he appeared 
insensible to all annoyances. But 
no sooner had the door closed behind 
Maitre Bernouillet, than Nicholas 
David began to give Chicot, who 
never left his hole for a moment, sin- 
gularly amusing specimens of solita- 
ry fury. 

On the day following his first 
taking his lodgings at the hotel, see- 
ing at once the evil disposition of 
the landlord, he had said, as if it 
had escaped him accidentally, shak- 
ing his fist at him, or rather shaking 
his fist at the door, by which he had 
just made his exit, u Five or six days 
more, my fine fellow, and you shall 
pay me for all this.” 

Chicot knew enough to be sure 
that Nicholas David would not leave 
the hostelry, until he received the 
reply of the ambassador. 

But at the approach of the sixth 
day, which was the seventh after his 
arrival at the hotel, Nicholas David, 
to whom the landlord, in spite of all 
Chicot’s entreaties, had given notice 
that he should soon require his apart- 
ment, Nicholas David, we say, fell 
sick. 


The host insisted that he should 
leave his room, while he was yet able 
to walk. The advocate asked until 
the next day pretending that on the 
next day he should undoubtedly be 
better, but the next day he was worse. 

It was the landlord himself, who 
came and announced this news, to 
his friend the Leaguer. 

u Well,” said he, u our friend He- 
rodes is going to pass the admiral’? 
review, ran-tan-plan-plan-plan !” 

To pass the admiral's review , in the 
Leaguer’s phrase, was to step from one 
world into the other. 

“Ball!” said Chicot. u Do you 
think he is going to die ?” 

u An abominable fever, my friends, 
a tertian, a quartan fever, with fits, 
which make him leap up in his bed. 
The mediciners cannot understand it 
in the least ; he is as hungry as the 
devil, he tried to strangle me, and he 
beats my waiters. The surgeons can 
make nothing of him.” 

Chicot began to ponder. 
u Have you seen him ?” he asked. 
u Of course I have ; how else 
should he have tried to strangle me ?” 
u How did he look ?” 
u He was pale, agitated, weak, cry- 
ing aloud like one possessed.” 
a What did he cry ?” 
u Have a care of the King. They 
want to hurt the King!” 
u The wretch !” 

u The rogue! then, from time to 
time, he said that he expected a man 
who should come from Avignon, and 
that he must needs see that man be- 
fore dying.” 

u Do you see that !” said Chicot. 
u Ah ! he talks about Avignon.” 
u Every minute of the day he does 
so.” 

u Ventre de hiche /” said Chicot, 
allowing his favorite oath to escape 
him. 

u Look you here,” said the land- 
lord, u it would be very droll if he 
were to die.’’ 

u Very droll,” said Chicot, u but 
I do not want him to die before the 
man shall arrive from Avignon.” 


19G 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Why not ? The sooner he dies, 
the sooner we shall he rid of him.” 
u True ; hut I do not carry my 
hatred so far as to desire the destruc- 
tion of both soul and body ; and 
since this man is coming from Avig- 
non, in order to confess him — ” 
u Ah ! look you, that is some fan- 
tasy of his fever, some whim which 
his sickness has put into his head, 
and he really expects no one.” 

u Bah ! who knows ?’’ said Chicot. 
u Ah ! you are really and truly a 
good Christian,” replied the land- 
lord. 

u Return good for evil saith the 
Scriptures.” 

The landlord retired in amazement. 
As for Gorenflot, remaining thus ut- 
terly free from any business, he grew 
fat, visibly, from day to day. At 
the end of the week, the staircase 
which led to his apartment groaned 
under his weight, and began to squeeze 
him between the balustrade and the 
wall, so that Gorenflot, one evening, 
announced to Chicot, in great dis- 
may, that the staircase was growing 
narrower. For the rest, neither Da- 
vid, nor the Leaguer, nor the lamenta- 
ble plight into which religion had 
fallen, occupied him in the least. 
He took no care, except to vary the 
bills of fare, and to harmonize the 
different growths of Burgundy with 
the different meats which he caused 
to be served up, while the landlord 
w r ould exclaim, in wonder, every time 
he saw him come in or go out, 

u And who would have believed 
that this fat monk was a torrent of 
eloquence f ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE AD- 
VOCATE, AND HOW THE ADVOCATE 
CONFESSED THE MONK. 

At length the day which was to re- 
lieve the hostelry of its unwelcome 


guest arrived, or seemed to have ar- 
rived. Master Bernouillet rushed 
into Chicot’s apartments with fits of 
laughter so immoderate, that Chicot 
was forced to wait some time ere he 
could learn the cause of them. 

u He is dying,” cried the charita- 
ble landlord. u He is bursting at 
last.” 

u And does that make you laugh 
to such a degree ?” asked Chicot. 

u I believe you. It is so beautiful 
a trick.” 

“ What trick?” 

u Oh ! no, you don’t know. Come, 
confess ; it is you who have played it 
off on him, my gentleman.” 
u I, a trick on the sick man ?’’ 
u Yes, yes.” 

u What is it all about? what has 
befallen him ?” 

u What has befallen him, heigh ? 
You know that he has been crying out 
all the time after the man from Avig- 
non.” 

u Well. Has the man come at 
last ?” 

u He has come.” 
u Have you seen him ?” 
u Par bleu ! does any one come 
here whom I do not see ?” 
u And what is he like ?” 
u Who ? the man from Avignon > 
He is little, slender, and rosy.” 
u That is it,” said Chicot at un- 
awares. 

u Then, you see, it must be you 
who sent him,” said the landlord, 
u since you recognize him at once.” 
u The messenger has arrived,” said 
Chicot, rising, and curling his mous- 
tache. u Ventre de biche ! tell me 
all about it, Gossip Bernouillet.” 
u Nothing can be simpler, since 
if you did not play it on him, you 
will be able to tell me who did. An 
hour ago I was hanging up a rabbit 
against the shutter, when a tall horse 
and a little man stopped at the door. 

u 4 Is Master Nicholas here ? ’ ask- 
ed the little man. You know thatiy 
the name which the infamous royalis* 
inscribed on my books. 

‘ 4 Yes, Monsieur,’ replied I. 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


197 


44 4 Tell him, then, that the per- 
son he has been expecting from Avig- 
non has arrived.’ 

44 4 Willingly, Monsieur. But I 
ought to warn you of one thing.’ 

44 4 What is that ?’ 

44 4 That Maitre Nicholas, as you 
call him, is dying.’ 

4 4 4 The more reason why you should 
do my commission without delay.’ 

4 4 4 But perhaps you are not aware 
that his fever is malio-nant.’ 

O 

4 4 4 Indeed,’ said the man. 4 Then 
I cannot impress on you too strongly 
the necessity of diligence.’ 

4 4 4 What, do you persist ?’ 

4 4 4 1 persist.’ 

4 4 4 In spite of all the danger.’ 

4 4 4 In spite of everything. I tell 
you, I must see him.’ 

44 The little man was growing frac- 
tious, and was beginning to speak in 
a tone so imperative as to admit of 
no reply. I conducted him, there- 
fore, to the dying man’s apartment.” 
44 So that he is there now?” asked 
Chicot, pointing in the direction of 
the room. 

44 He is there. Is it not droll ?” 

44 Excessively droll,” said Chicot. 
44 What a pity that we cannot hear 
them !” 

44 It is a pity.” 

44 The. scene must he a burlesque.” 
44 To the very last degree. But 
what hinders you from going into the 
room ?” 

44 He sent me away.’’ 

44 On what pretext ?” 

44 On the pretext that he was going 
to confess himself.’’ 

44 What hinders you from listening 
at the door ?” 

44 Ah! you are right,” said the 
landlord, darting out of the room as 
he spoke. 

Chicot, in his turn, ran to his 
gimblet hole. 

Pierre de Gondy was seated at the 
bed’s head of the sick man ; but they 
both spoke so low, that Chicot could 
not hear a word they said. 

Moreover, had he heard it, the con- 
versation, which was already drawing 


to a close, would have given him no 
information, for within five minute3 
Monsieur de Gondy rose, took leave 
of the dying man, and went his way. 
Chicot ran to the window. 

A lackey, mounted on a bob-tailed 
hackney, was holding the tall horse, 
of which the landlord had spoken, by 
the bridle. A moment afterward, 
the ambassador of the Messieurs de 
Guise made his appearance, got into 
his saddle, and turned the corner of 
the street leading into the highroad 
to Paris. 

44 Mordieu /” said Chicot, 44 if only 
he have not taken the genealogy with 
him. At all events, I will overtake 
him, if I should have to kill the 
horses in doing so. But, no, no,” 
he continued, 44 these advocates are 
too cunning foxes, ours especially ; 
and I suspect — now I would just ask 
you a little ” — said Chicot, stamp- 
ing his foot on the ground impatient- 
ly, and jumping, doubtless, men- 
tally from one idea to another — 
44 now, I would just ask you a little, 
where is that rogue Gorenflot ?” 

At this moment the landlord came 
in again. 

44 Well?” asked Chicot. 

44 He is gone,” said the landlord 
44 Who ? the confessor ?” 

44 Who was no more a confessor 
than I am.” 

44 And the sick man ?” 

44 Fainted immediately after the 
conference.” 

44 Are you sure that he is still in 
hi« room ?” 

44 Parbleu ! It is little likely that 
he will leave it, until he is carried to 
the cemetery.” 

44 That is well Go and send me 
my brother, so soon as he shall re- 
appear.” 

44 Even if he is drunk ?” 

44 In whatever state he is.” 

44 It is urgent, then ?’’ 

44 It is for the good of the cause.” 
Bernouillet went out instantly. H$ 
was a very zealous man. 

It was now Chicot’s turn to have a 
fever. He knew not whether he 


198 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ought to set off in pursuit of Gondy, 
or to make his way into David’s 
room. If the advocate were really 
as sick as the landlord believed him 
to be, it was probable that he had 
given Monsieur de Gondy charge of 
the despatches. Chicot strode to 
and fro about the chamber, like a 
madman, striking his forehead, and 
searching for an idea among the thou- 
sand of globules which seemed to boil 
up in his brain. 

Nothing more was to be heard 
now in the adjoining room, and Chi- 
cot could discover nothing but the 
angle of the bed, wrapped up in its 
curtains. 

Suddenly a voice came ringing up 
the staircase. Chicot started. It 
was the voice of the monk. 

Gorenflot, shoved along by the 
landlord, who was laboring vainly to 
make him hold his tongue, climbed 
the steps of the staircase one by one, 
carolling in a drunken voice this 
bacchanalian strain : 

“Good wine, ’tisvery plain, 

Good wine and grievous pain 
Are struggling, struggling in my pate to- 
gether, 

Struggling with might and main, 

And kicking up, indeed, right stormy 
weather. 

But one of them is stronger than the other. 
Wine is the stronger, 

So that old pain, in spite of all his pother, 
Can stay, can stay, in my poor pate no 
longer.” 

Chicot ran to the door. 

44 Silence !” he cried. 44 Silence, 
drunkard.” 

44 Drunkard,” said Gorenflot, 
44 because one has drunk a little.” 

44 Let us see ! come hither. And 
you, Bernouillet, you know — ” 

44 Yes,” said the landlord, running 
down four stairs at a time. 

44 Come in hither, I tell thee,” 
continued Chicot, drawing the monk 
into his room, 44 and let us talk 
serious, if you can.” 

44 Parbleu /” said Gorenflot. 44 You 
are joking, gossip. I am as serious 
as an ass which is drinking.” 

V — / 

44 Which has drunken, rather,” said 
Chicot, shrugging up his shoulders. 


Then he led him to a chair, into 
which Gorenflot suffered himself tc 
drop, uttering an 44 ah,” significant 
of deep gratification. 

Chicot went and closed the door, 
and returned to Gorenflot with a face 
so serious, that the monk understood 
at once that he had got to listen. 

44 Come, what is there to be done 
more ?”- said the monk, as if in that 
word were summed up all the perse- 
cutions to which Chicot was subject- 
ing him. 

44 There is this,” replied Chicot 
very roughly, 44 that you do not think 
enough about the duties of your pro- 
fession ; that you are weltering in 
debauchery, that you are rotting in 
drunkenness, and during all this time, 
religion is taking care of herself as 
well as she can, Corbceuf /” 

Goronflot raised his two great eyes, 
wide staring with astonishment, to the 
face of his questioner. 

“ 1 ?” said he. 

Yes, you. Look here, you are a 
brutal sight to see. Your frock i3 

o 

torn. You have been fighting on the 
road. You have got a black eye.” 

44 I ?” exclaimed Gorenflot, yet 
more and more astonished at the 
reproaches of Chicot, who had by no 
means accustomed him to hear such 
comments on his conduct. 

44 Certainly, you ! You have your 
knees covered with mud ; and what 
mud ? white mud, which proves that 
you have been away getting drunk in 
the suburbs.” 

44 Upon my honor, that is true,” 
said Gorenflot. 

44 Miserable wretch ! a monk of 
Saint Genevieve’s too ! If you had 
only been a Franciscan now.” 

u Chicot,, my friend, I am indeed 
very guilty,” said Gorenflot, com- 
pletely overcome by the consciousness 
of his enormities. 

44 That is to say, you are so guilty 
that you deserve that the fire of 
heaven should consume you, to your 
very sandals. Take care, for if you 
continue in these practices 1 will 
abandon you.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


199 


“ Chicot, my friend,” said the 
monk, “ you will not do that.” 

“There are archers at Lyons as 
well as elsewhere.” 

“ Oh ! mercy, mercy, my dear pro- 
tector !” stammered the monk, who 
now began not to cry, but to bellow 
like a bull. 

“ Faugh ! you ugly brute,” con- 
tinued Chicot, “ and at what a mo- 
ment, I ask it of you, at what a mo- 
ment, have you given yourself up to 
these practices? When we have a 
neighbor dying.” 

“ It is true,” said Gorenflot, with 
an air of the deepest contrition. 

“ Come, are you a Christian, or 
are you not ?” 

“ Am I a Christian ?” shrieked 
Gorenflot, rising from his chair, “am 
I a Christian ? By the tripes of the 
Pope, I am nothing else. I would 
proclaim it upon the gridiron of St. 
Lawrence.” 

And with his arm extended as in 
the act of swearing, he began to chant 
as loudly as if he would have broken 
all the windows, 

“ I’m a Christian good, I vow — 

’Tis my only good, I trow.” 

“ There, there, that will do,” said 
Chicot, stopping his mouth with his 
hand, “ if you are a Christian, do 
not let vour brother die unconfessed.” 

“ That is true, where is my bro- 
ther ? Let me confess him,” said Go- 
renflot, “ that is to say after I have 
had a drink ; for I am very thirsty, 
dying for thirst.” 

Here Chicot handed a great can of 
water to the monk, which he, drained 
to the very bottom. 

“ Ah ! my son,” said he, setting 
down the not on the table, u I begin 
to see clearly.” 

“ That is very lucky,” said Chicot, 
res lived to take advantage of this 
luc d interval. 

‘‘Now, my dear friend, who is it 
that l must confess ? 5 ’ asked the 
monk. 

u Our unfortunate neighbor, who 
is dying.” 


“ Let them give him a pint of wine 
with honey,” said Gorenflot. 

“ I do not say ‘ no 5 to that, but he 
has more occasion just now for spir- 
itual than for temporal succor ; you 
will go and find him.” 

“ Do you think I am sufficiently 
prepared, Monsieur Chicot?” asked 
the monk timidly. 

“ You ! I never saw you fuller of 
unction than at this moment. You 
will bring him back into the paths of 
virtue, if he have lost his way ; you 
will send him straight to Paradise, if 
he is in search of the way thither. 5 * 

“ I am off.” 

“ Wait a moment — I must tell you 
how to proceed.” 

“ What need ? I have not been a 
monk these twenty years, without 
learning my business. 5 * 

“Of course not; but it is not 
merely your business you will have to 
do on this occasion ; you must strict- 
ly follow my directions.” 

“ Your directions?” 

“ Yes, and if you follow them 
strictly, understand me, I will depo- 
sit a hundred pistoles at the Corne 
d’Abondance, which you may either 
eat or drink at your pleasure 55 
“ Eat and drink will be my pleasure.” 
“ Well, be it so ; a hundred pis- 
toles, you understand, if you confess 
this dying sinner.” 

“ I will confess him, or the plague 
may take me. How am I to proceed ?” 
“Listen. Your gown invests you 
with great authority, and you can 
speak in the name of God as well as 
in the name of the King. You must, 
by your eloquence, compel this man 
to deliver into your hands the papers 
which have just been brought to him 
from Avignon.” 

“ Why should I compel him to 
deliver up the papers ? 5 ’ 

Chicot eyed the monk compassion- 
ately. u To earn your thousand 
crowns, thrice told, fool, 5 * said he. 

“ I understand, 5 ’ said Gorenflot, 
“ I am off . 55 

u Wait a moment ; he will tell you 
that he has just been confessing . 55 


800 


DIANA OF MERIDOR: OR, 

# 9 


“ What tnen ?” 

“ Assure him that he is mistaken, 
and that the man who has just left 
his room, is a rogue like himself.” 

“ But he may get angry.” 

“ What matters it, since he is 
dying ?” 

“ That is true.” 

“ And then, mind you, you can 
call upon God — you can call upon the 
devil — you can call upon whom you 
please ; but, by some contrivance or 
other, you must dispossess him of the 
papers from Avignon.” 

“ And if he refuses ?” 

“ You will refuse him absolution ; 
send him to perdition ; anathemise 
him.” 

“ Or I will take them forcibly.” 

“ There will be no harm in that. 
But let us see : are you sobered 

enough to execute my directions 
strictly ?” 

“ That I am ; you shall see.” 

And Gorenflot, as he rubbed his 
hand over his big face, seemed to re- 
move all external traces of intoxica- 
tion ; his eyes resumed a quiet ex- 
pression — with a little close attention, 
they would have been pronounced 
stupified; the words that fell from 
his lips were scanned with becoming 
moderation ; and his carriage became 
erect, although a little unsteady. 

Having effected this species of 
transformation, he walked gravely to- 
ward the door. 

“ Wait a moment,” said Chicot. 
“ When you get hold of the papers, 
grasp them well in one hand, and 
knock at the wall with the other.” 

' “ And if he persists in refusing ?” 
“Knock, still.” • 

“ Then, in either case, I must 
knock ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very good.” 

Gorenflot went on his errand, leav- 
ing Chicot in a state of prodigious 
agitation : he glued his ear to the wall 
that he might be able to detect the 
slightest noise. 

Ten minutes afterward, the creak- 
ing of the floor informed him that 

O 


Gorenflot was entering his neighbor’s 
apartment, and, the next instant, he 
was able to catch a glimpse of his 
person through the chink we have 
already mentioned. 

The lawyer raised himself in his 
bed, and watched the Approach of the 
strange apparition. 

“ Hey, good day, brother,” said 
Gorenflot, pausing in the middle of 
the room, and squaring his bread 
shoulders. 

“ What brings you here, father?” 
murmured the sick man in a weak 
voice. 

“ My son, I am an unworthy friar : 
I have learned that thou art in dan- 
ger, and I have come here to discourse 
with thee about the salvation of thy 
immortal soul.” 

“ Much obliged,” said the dying 
man, “ but your care will not be re- 
quired. I am much better.” 
Gorenflot shook lys head. 

“So thou imaginest,” said he 
“ I am sure of it.” 

“ One of Satan’s devices — he would 
be glad to see thee die without hav- 
ing made thy confession.” 

“ Satan would be outwitted,” said 
the sick man, “ for I have just been 
making my confession.” 

“To whom ?” 

“ To a worthy priest from Avignon.” 
Gorenflot shook his head again. 

“ He is not a priest,” said he. 

“ What ! he is not a priest ?” 
“No.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ I know the man.” 

“ The man who has just left me?” 
“ The same,” said Gorenflot, in a 
tone of such sincerity, that, however 
difficult of persuasion lawyers may 
generally be, the patient was a little 
shaken. 

“ And as thou art really no bet- 
ter,” added Gorenflot, “ and as that 
man was not a priest, thou must make 
thy confession.” 

“ I ask for nothing better,” said 
the lawyer, in a little stronger voice ; 
“ but I shall confess only to whom i 
please.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


201 


u Thou hast no time to send for 
another, my son ; and, since I am on 
the spot — ” 

u What ! I shall have no time,” 
said the lawyer, in a voice growing 
stronger and stronger ; u when I tell 
you that I am getting better — when 
I feel certain that I shall soon be 
quite well ?” 

Gorenflot shook his head a third 
time. 

u And I,” persisted he in the same 
confident tone, u I tell thee that I 
have no hopes of thee ; thou art con- 
demned by the physicians, and like- 
wise by divine providence ; I know 
that this must give thee pain, but it 
is a doom that overtakes us all, soon- 
er or later. Justice holds the scales, 
and, beside, there is some consolation 
for dying in this world, in the reflec- 
tion that we are to rise again in the 
next. Pythagoras himself used to 
say so, my son, and he was no better 
than a pagan. Come, make thy con- 
fession, dearly beloved brother.” 
u But, I can assure you, father, 
that I feel already much stronger ; it 
is probably an effect of your holy 
presence.” 

u Wrong, my son, wrong; in the 
last dread hour of existence, the vital 
powers seem to be recruited, like the 
lamp which revives for a moment be- 
fore final extinction. Come,” said 
the monk, seating himself by the side 
of the bed ; u tell me all thy plottings, 
contrivings, and machinations.” 
u My plottings, contrivings, and 
machinations,” repeated Nicholas 
David, recoiling from the strange 
monk, whom he did not know, and 
who appeared to know him so well. 

u Yes,” said Gorenflot, composed- 
ly, preparing his large ears to hear, 
joining his two thumbs over his clasp- 
ed hands, u and then, when thou hast 
told me all, thou wilt give me the pa- 
pers, and perhaps I may be permitted 
by God to give thee an absolution.” 
u What papers?” exclaimed the 
sick man, in a voice as strong and as 
vigorously intonated as if he were in 
full health 


u The papers which the pretended 
priest brought thee from Avignon.” 

u And who has told you that the 
pretended priest brought me papers ?’’ 
asked the lawyer, thrusting out a leg 
from under the coverlets, and speak- 
ing so abruptly as to disturb the 
beatified slumber to which Gorenflot 
was beginning to yield in his comfor- 
table arm-chair. 

The monk bethought himself that 
the time was come to act with deci- 
sion. 

u He who told me, knew what he 
was saying,” he rejoined ; u come, 
out with the papers, or no absolu- 
tion.” 

u Afigfor your absolution, knave,” 
cried the lawyer, jumping out of bed, 
and seizing Gorenflot by the throat. 

u Ho, there !” cried the latter. u Is 
the fever on thee — wilt thou not con- 
fess thyself?” 

The lawyer’s thumb knuckle dex- 
terously applied to the monk’s throat, 
interrupted his speech, which died 
away in a hissing sound, very like the 
rattle of death. 

u I am determined to make you 
confess, you son of Beelzebub,” cried 
David ; u and as for the fever, you 
will soon see whether it is severe 
enough to prevent mefromstr 
you.” 

Brother Gorenflot was robust, but 
unfortunately he was just then in 
that state of re-action in which intox- 
ication paralyses the nervous system ; 
a thing that usually occurs jointly 
with an opposite species of re-action, 
when the mental faculties are begin- 
ning to recover their natural tone. 

By collecting all his strength, he 
was. consequently only able to rise 
from his chair, and by using both his 
hands, to cast the lawyer loose from 
him. 

It is but right to say that, all par- 
alysed as he was, brother Gorenflot 
exerted himself so effectually, that he 
sent Master David reeling on the 
floor in the middle of the room. 

But he rose greatly exasperated, 
and snatching the long sword which 



202 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


was suspended behind his clothes, he 
quickly drew it from its scabbard. In 
an instant it was pointed at the 
monk’s neck. Gorenflot, exhausted 
by the exertion he had made, had 
sunk back in his arm-chair. 

“ It is now your turn to confess,” 
said David, in a voice husky with 
rage — “else you die.” 

Gorenflot, completely sobered by 
the disagreeable pressure of the cold 
point of the weapon on his bare skin, 
felt his position to be rather critical. 

u So,” said he, “you were not 
sick — your dying agony was all a 
farce ?” 

“ You forget that your business is 
not to ask questions,” said the law- 
yer, “ but to answer.” 

“To answer what ?” 

“ My questions.” 

“ Question away ?” 

“ Who are you ?” 

“ You can see who I am.” 

“ That is not an answer,” said the 
lawyer, giving his sword the least 
pressure in the world. 

“ Sdeath — take care. If you kill 
me before I answer, you will learn 
nothing at all.” 

“You are not far wrong. Your 
name.” 

“ Brother Gorenflot.” 

“ Then you are really a monk ?” 

“ A real monk? That I am.” 

“ What are you doing at Lyons ?” 
“ I am in exile.” 

“ How came you to this hotel ?” 

“ By chance.” 

“ How many days have you been 
here ?” 

“ Sixteen.” 

“ Why have you been watching 
me ?” 

“ I have not been watching you.” 

“ How did you learn that I had re- 
ceived papers ? ’ 

“ I was told so.’’ 

“ Who told you ?” 

“ The person who sent me hither.” 
“ Who sent you hither?” 

“ That is precisely what I cannot 
tell vou.” 

“ And yet you shall tell me.” 


“ Hold !” cried the monk “Zook* 
ers, 1 shall call out — I shall scream !” 

“ And I shall kill.” 

The monk shrieked ; a drop of 
blood moistened the lawyer’s sword 
point. 

“ His name ?” said the latter. 

“ Faith ; so much the worse,” said 
the monk. “ I have held out as long as 
I could.” 

“ That you have. Your honor is 
safe. Who sent you here” — 

“ Why”— 

Gorenflot still hesitated ; it cost 
him a pang to betray his friend. 

“ Out with it,” said the lawyer, 
stamping his foot. 

“ Faith, so much the worse ! It was 
Chicot.” 

“ The King’s fool !” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where is he ?” 

“ Here !” answered a voice. 

And Chicot, in his turn, entered 
the apartment, pale, grave, and with 
his drawn sword in his hand. 


CHAPTER IX 

HOW CHICOT, AFTER HAVING MADE A 
HOLE WITH A GIMBLET, MADE AN- 
OTHER WITH HIS SWORD. 

Master Nicholas David, on recog- 
nizmg the man whom he knew to be 
his deadly enemy, could not repress a 
movement of terror. 

Gorenflot took advantage of the 
movement aforesaid to jump aside, 
and so break the line of continuity 
between his neck and the lawyer’s 
dangerous weapon. 

“ Help, best of friends — help — to 
the rescue — I shall be murdered.” 

“ Ah, my dear Monsieur David, is 
that you?” said Chicot. 

“ Yes,” stammered David — “ of 
course it is.” 

“ Delighted to meet with you,” re- 
sumed the Gascon. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


203 


Then, turning round to the monk : 
a Worthy Gorenflot,” said he, u thy 
presence here was very necessary when 
Monsieur was supposed to be dying ; 
but, as it seems that Monsieur is in 
excellent health, it is not a confessor 
he wants. He will now have to deal 
with a gentleman.” 

David tried to force a contemptu- 
ous sneer. 

u Yes, with a gentleman,” said 
Chicot, u and who will presently con- 
vince you that he comes of good blood. 
My dear Gorenflot,” continued he, ad- 
dressing the monk, u do me the favor 
to post thyself on the landing-place, 
and to guard me against being inter- 
rupted by any one whomsoever, du- 
ring the little talk I am going to have 
with Monsieur David.” 

Gorenflot asked no better than get 
out of Nicholas David’s reach as quick- 
ly as possible ; accordingly, he glided 
rapidly along the wall, and once at 
the door, he cleared the threshold 
with a jump, lighter by a hundred 
pounds than when he entered. 

Chicot closed the door behind him, 
and, with the same phlegmatic cool- 
ness, pushed the bolt. 

At first, David beheld these pre- 
parations with a sinking of the heart 
attributable to the suddenness of the 
surprise ; but soon, relying upon his 
known skill in arms, and encouraged 
by the reflection that, after all, Chi- 
cot was alone, he recovered his pre- 
sence of mind, and when the Gascon 
turned round, after closing the door, 
he found him resting against the foot 
of the bedstead, sword in hand, with 
a smile on his lips. 

u Dress yourself, sir,” said Chicot, 
u you shall have time and opportuni- 
ty, for I have no desire to take the 
least advantage of you. I am aware 
that you are valiant of fence, and that 
you can handle a sword like Leclerc 
himself; but, to me, it matters not.” 
David began to laugh. 
u A most excellent jest,” said he. 
44 Yes,” replied Chicot, u at least, 
so it appears to me, since I am the 
author of it, and, as you are a man 


of taste, it will presently appear bet- 
ter in your estimation. Do you know 
for what purpose I have visited this 
room ?” 

u To receive the balance of tho 
stripes 1 owed you in the name of the 
Duke of Mayenne, the day you jump- 
ed so nimbly through the window.” 
u No, sir ; I know how that account 
stands, and I shall pay them back to 
him who ordered them to be given to 
me — that you may der>end upon. I 
have come hither for a certain pedi- 
gree which Monsieur Pierre de Gondy, 
without knowing what he bore, took 
with him to Avignon, and which, with- 
out knowing what he brought back, he 
has delivered into your hands.” 

David changed color. 
u What pedigree ?” he asked. 
u That of Messieurs de Guise, who, 
as you know, are descended in a direct 
line from Charlemagne. ” 

u Ah,” said David, u and so, sir, 
you are a spy. I had always taken 
you to be only a jester.” 

u My dear Monsieur David, I will 
be both one and the other on the pre- 
sent occasion — a spy to get you hung, 
and a jester to enjoy it.” 
u To get me hung !” 
u High and dry, sir. You have no 
pretension to be beheaded, I hope. 
That is an exit reserved for gentle- 
men.” 

u And pray, how will you accom- 
plish your purpose ?” 

u Oh ! in a very simple manner. 
I shall tell the truth — that is all. 
You must know, my dear Monsieur 
David, that I was present, a month 
since, at a certain assembly, convoked 
at the convent of Saint- Genevieve *>y 
their Highnesses, Messieurs de Guise 
and Madame de Montpensier.” 

“ You ?” 

u Yes ; I was lodged in the confes- 
sional opposite your’s, and a very 
uncomfortable lodgment it is, is it 
not ? The more uncomfortable in 
my case, inasmuch as I was obliged 
to delay my departure until the whole 
affair was over, and a mighty long 
affair it was. Consequently I heard 


204 


DIANA OF MERIDOR. 


the speeches of Monsieur de Monso- 
reau, of Master la Huriere, and of 
a certain monk whose name I have 
forgotten, but who struck me as being 
very eloquent. I witnessed the cere- 
mony of the coronation of my lord 
of Anjou, which was less entertaining, 
but by way of compensation, the 
after-piece was very funny : they per- 
formed the pedigree of Messieurs de 
Lorraine, revised, augmented, and 
corrected by Master Nicholas David. 
It was a very funny piece, and only 
wanted His Holiness’s attestation.” 

44 Ah ! you are acquainted with the 
pedigree,” said David, scarcely able 
to restrain himself, and biting his 
lips with anger. 

44 Yes,” said Chicot, 44 and I found 
it particularly ingenious, especially 
where it touched upon the Salic law. 

* Only it is a great misfortune to be so 
clever ; one is sure to get hung. Now, 
feeling a tender interest in the fate 
of a man so ingenious — 4 What,’ said 
I to myself, 4 shall I suffer Master 
David to run his neck into the noose 
— a capital swordsman — a first rate 
lawyer, and one of my good friends 
— when I can not only save him, but 
make his fortune — the fortune of the 
learned lawyer — the good swordsman 
— the precious friend — the first who 
gave me the measure of my heart, by 
taking the measure of my back ? 
No ; it shall not be said’ — and ac- 
cordingly, having heard you speak of 
a journey hitherward, I determined, 
as there was nothing to prevent me, 
to travel with you, that is to say, be- 
hind you. You left the city by the 
Bordelles gate, did you not ? I was 
on the wait, and you did not see me ; 
but that did not astonish me, for I 
was well concealed. From that mo- 
ment I have followed on, sometimes 
losing sight of you, sometimes com- 
ing up with you, and at all times 
taking a great deal of trouble, I can 
assure you. At length, we reached 
Lyons, I say we reached, because an 
hour after you, I was installed in the 
same hostel as yourself, and not only 
in the same hostel, but in the room 


adjoining ; in that one, see, which is 
only separated from yours by a sim- 
ple partition. You can readily im- 
agine that I did not follow you all the 
way from Paris to Lyons, to lose you 
at last. No ; I bored a small hole, 
with the assistance of which I enjoy- 
ed the advantage of looking at you 
as much as I pleased, and I must con- 
fess, that it was daily a frequent re- 
creation of mine At last, you fell 
sick, and the host wanted to thrust 
you forth ; you had appointed to 
meet Monsieur de Gondy at the 
Signe de la Croix, and you feared 
lest he might not be able to find you 
elsewhere, or at least to find you 
quick enough. It was a stratagem, 
but I was only half the dupe of it. 
However, as, after all, it was possible 
that you might be really sick — all 
men are mortal, a fact I shall en- 
deavor to demonstrate to you present- 
ly — I sent you a worthy monk, my • 
friend and companion, to exhort you to 
repentance and to warn you to amend 
your ways. But no, hardened sinner 
that you are, you wanted to perforate 
his throat with your rapier, forgetful 
of the maxim of the Evangelist — 

4 He who strikes with 'the sword,, 
shall perish by the sword’ — Finally, 

I made my appearance, and said, 

4 Come, we are old acquaintances and 
friends, let us arrange matters toge- 
ther ’ — Well, say the word ; you have 
heard me — shall we arrange mat- 
ters 

44 In what way ?” 

44 In the same way as if you had 
been really sick ; as if friend Goren- 
flot had confessed you, and you had 
delivered up to him the papers he ask- 
ed you for. If matters had turned 
out as we are supposing, I could have 
pardoned you, and I should have 
cheerfully said an In Manus in your 
behalf. Well, 1 shall not be mor^ 

exacting toward the living than 

© © 

dead, and it only remains for r 
say — Monsieur David, you ar 
complished man ; fencing. 1 
ship, pettifogging, the a 
heavy purses into lar^ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATT. 


205 


are an adept in all these. It would 
be a pity that such a man as you 
should disappear suddenly from a 
world in which he is destined to pros- 
per so well. Well, my dear Mon- 
sieur David, let us have no more plot- 
ting. Trust me ; break with the 
Guises ; give me up your papers, and 
on the honor of a gentleman, I will 
make your peace with the King.” 
u While, on the contrary, if I do 
not give them up ?” asked Nicholas 
David. 

u Oh ! if you will not give them 
up, it will be a different matter ! On 
the honor of a gentleman, I shall 
kill you. Does the jest improve, 
Master Nicholas David ?” 

u Better and better,” replied the 
lawyer, feeling his sword-blade. 

u But if you will give them up,” 
continued Chicot, u everything shall 
be forgotten. You do not believe 
me, Monsieur David, for you have a 
bad disposition, and you imagine 
that resentment is encrusted in my 
heart like rust in iron. No : I hate 
you, it is true, but I hate Monsieur 
de Mayenne more than I do you ; 
provide me with the means of destroy- 
ing him, and you are saved. Be- 
sides, allow me to add something 
which your selfish nature will forbid 
you to believe. It is, that I am at- 
tached to the King ; me, silly, cor- 
rupt and degenerate though he be, 
he has protected against your butcher, 
De Mayenne, who, at the head of a 
gang of fifteen cut-throats, murdered 
a gentleman, single and alone, on 
the Place du Louvre ; you know to 
whom I allude — to poor Saint Me- 
grin. Ware you not one of the mur- 
derers yourself? No: so much the 
better — a moment since, I believed 
that you were, and I believe so still 
more now. Well, I want my poor 
King Henry to reign in peace, a 
thing impossible with the Mayennes 
and the pedigrees of Master Nicholas 
David. Give me up, then, the pedi- 
gree, and on the faith of a gentleman, 
1 will keep your secret and make 

vour fortune.” 

• 


During this long exposition of his 
ideas — made long for a purpose — 
Chicot had attentively watched Da- 
vid. The result of his examination 
was, that not once did he remark the 
slightest relaxation of the steel fibre 
which dilated the lawyer’s fallow eye 
— not one good thought lighted up 
his gloomy features — not one touch 
of feeling was there to abate the re- 
solute determination with which he 
grasped his sword. 

u Well,” resumed Chicot, I see 
that all my eloquence is lost upon 
you, and that you will not trust me. 
I shall, therefore, proceed to use the 
means in my power, in the first place, 
to punish old wrongs towards myself, 
and in the next place, to rid the 
world of a man who has lost all faith 
in honor and humanity. I am going 
to get you hung. Farewell, Monsieur 
David.” 

And Chicot stepped backward to- 
ward the door, still keeping his eye 
on the lawyer. 

The latter made a bound forward : 
u And do you imagine that I will 
let you leave this room ?” cried David. 
u No, no, worthy spy — no, no, friend 
Chicot — the man who knows the 
secret of my pedigree must die ! You 
have ventured here, and here you 
shall leave your carcass.” 

u You place me quite at my ease, 
rejoined Chicot, with the same calm- 
ness — u I only hesitated because I 
am sure to kill you. Crillon, fencing 
with me some two months back, taught 
me a particular pass — a single one, 
but, on my honor, it will suffice. 
Come, deliver up the papers,” added 
he in a terrible voice, u or I kill you ! 
And I may as well tell you how — I 
shall run you through the throat in 
the precise spot where you let blood 
from my friend Gorenflot.” 

Chicot had not finished speaking, 
when the lawyer rushed on him, with 
a wild burst of laughter : Chicot re- 
ceived him sword in hand. 

The two foes were about the 
same size ; but, Chicot’s dress hid 
his leanness, while nothing hid the 


206 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


long, slender, and flexible figure of the 
lawyer. With liis head erect, and his 
extended sword-arm in nimble mo- 
tion, he had all the appearance of an 
uncoiled serpent, but as Chicot had 
warned him, he had to deal with a 
troublesome adversary. 

Chicot practised almost every day 
with the King, and had become one of 
the best swordsmen in the kingdom, 
a fact of which Nicholas David was 
soon made aware by always encoun- 
tering his opponent’s sword, no mat- 
ter how he attacked him. 

He retreated a step. 

u Ah,” said Chicot, u you are be- 
ginning to understand, are you not ? 
Come, for the last time — the papers.” 

David made answers by again rush- 
ing on the Gascon. A second com- 
bat ensued, longer and more despe- 
rate than the first, although Chicot 
contented himself with parrying, and 
made no attempt to hit. This strug- 
gle ended like the first, by the law- 
yer’s breaking. 

u Ah !” said Chicot. u it is now 
my turn !” 

And he made a step forward. 

As he advanced, Nicholas David 
disengaged to bar him. Chicot par- 
ried prime, crossed his adversary’s 
sword, tierce after tierce, and hit him 
in the spot he had indicated before- 
hand. He passed one-half of his 
rapier through his throat. 

u The very thrust I intended,” 
said Chicot. 

David made no rejoinder ; he fell, 
with the blow, at Chicot’s feet vomit- 
ing blood. 

Chicot, in his turn, stepped back. 
Mortally wounded though he be, the 
serpent can still raise his head and 
bite. 

But David, by a natural movement, 
tri ed to drag himself toward the bed, 
as if to protect his secret. 

u Ah,” said Chicot, u I gave you 
credit for shrewdness, whereas you 
are a silly fool — a mere bumpkin. I 
did not know where you had hidden 
your papers, but now I do.” 

And while David was writhing in 


the convulsions of his last agony, 
Chicot ran over to the bed, raised the 
mattrass, and found under the head a 
small roll of parchment, which David, 
ignorant of the catastrophe that await- 
ed him, had not bethought himself of 
more effectually concealing. 

As he was in the act of unrolling 
it to assure himself that it was truly 
the paper he was looking for, David 
raised himself up with a desperate 
effort, and the next instant fell back, 
yielding his last breath. 

Chicot ran over the parchment 
brought back from Avignon by Pierre 
de Gondy, with eyes sparkling with 
joy and self-satisfaction. 

The Pope’s legate, faithful to the 
policy adopted by the sovereign pon- 
tiff ever since his advent to the tiara, 
had underwritten : 

Fiat ut voluit Deus : Feus jura 
hominum fecit . 

u Verily a ' Pope who treats his 
most Christian Majesty in rather a 
scurvy manner,” said Chicot. 

And he carefully folded the parch- 
ment, committing it to the safest 
pocket of his doublet, that is to say, 
to the pocket immediately over his 
breast. 

Then he took the body of the law- 
yer, who had died without much ex- 
ternal bleeding, the nature of the 
wound having concentrated the 
hemorrhage internally, placed it in 
the bed with the face turned toward 
the wall, and opening the door, called 
Gorenflot. 

Gorenflot entered. 
u How pale you are !” said the 
monk. 

u Yes,” said Chicot, u I feel a 
little agitated after witnessing the 
last moments of that poor man.” 
u He is dead, then ?” asked Goren- 
flot. 

u There is every reason for believ- 
ing that he is,” replied Chicot. 
u He was so well a moment ago.” 

<£ Too well. He ate something 
difficult of digestion, and like Ana- 
creon, has died because he swallowed 
the wrong way.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


207 


u Oh, ’’ said Gorenflot, u the rascal 
Wanted to strangle me ! me, a church- 
man. It brought him ill-luck.” 
u Pardon him, comrade, you are 
a Christian.” 

“ I pardon him,” said Gorenflot, 
u although he frightened me ter- 
ribly.” 

u That is not all,” said Chicot, 
u it will be proper for you to light 
tapers and mutter a few prayers over 
his body.” 

“ What for ? 

It will be recollected that this was 
Gorenflot’s standing question. 

u How, what for? Not to be ar- 
rested and taken to the city prison 
as a murderer.” 

I the murderer of that man ? 
Bah ! it was he wanted to murder 
me.” 

Mon Dieu ! yes. And, as he 
could not succeed in his wicked pur- 
pose, he got excited, burst a blood- 
vessel, and there was an end of him. 
I*n fine, you must see, Gorenflot, that 
you were the cause of his death, the 
innocent cause, it is true, but still 
the cause. Until your innocence 
could be satisfactorily proved, you 
might fare badly.” 

“I believe that you are right, 
Monsieur Chicot,” said the monk. 

u The more so, inasmuch as the 
official of this city of Lyons is said to 
be very severe.” 

u Jesu !” murmured the monk. 
a Do what I tell you, comrade.” 
u What must I do ?” 
tc Instal yourself here, recite fer- 
vently all the prayers you know, and 
even those you do not know ; and 
when evening comes, and you will be 
alone, leave the hostelry leisurely, 
and without haste. You know the 
farrier’s smithy at the corner of the 
street.’’ 

“ Of course I do, it was there I re- 
ceived this mark yesterday evening,” 
Said Gorenflot, pointing to his black 
eye. 

u Touching remembrance. Well, 
I shall take care that you shall find 
your horse there. Do you under- 


stand ? You will mount him with- 
out saying a word to any one Next 
you will follow your own bent you 
know the road to Paris. Sell your 
horse at Villcncuve-lc-Roi, and take 
back Panurge.” 

u Ah, good Panurge! You are 
right, I shall be glad to see him 
again, I love him. But, how am I to 
live by the way?” added the monk, 
in a piteous tone. 

u When I give, I give,” said Chi- 
cot, u and do not allow my friends to 
go begging, as they do at the convent 
of Saint-Genevieve — see — ” 


Chicot drew from his pocket a 
handful of crowns, which he trans- 
ferred to the monk’s open and willing 
hand. 

u Generous man !” said Gorenflot, 
affected even to tears, u let me re- 
main with you at Lyons. I like Ly- 
ons, it is the second capital of the 
kingdom, and then it is a hospitable 
city.” 

u But, you must know, thrice-told 
fool, that I am not about to remain 
here. I am going to pursue my jour- 
ney, and that so rapidly, that I 
should not advise you to follow me.” 
u Your will be done, Master Chi- 
cot,” said Gorenflot, with resigna- 
tion. 


u You are reasonable, now,’*’ said 
Chicot, u just as I like you to be, 
comrade.” 

Having installed the monk by the 
bed- side, he went down to see the 
host, whom he took aside. 

u Host Bernouillet,” said he , u al- 
though you had no suspicions of it, 
a great event has taken place in your 
house.” 

u Bah,” said the host, aghast — 
“ what has happened ?” 

u That rabid royalist, that scorner 
of religion, that abettor of the Hu- 
guenots — ” 


u Well !” 

u Well ! He had an interview this 


morning, 

Rome.” 


with 


messenger 

O 


from 


u T 

L 


you 




know it, since it was I that told 


208 


DIANA OF MERIDOR • OR, 


“Well! Our Holy Father, the 
Pope, on whom all temporal justice 
in this world has devolved, as well as 
all spiritual justice in the other ; our 
Holy Father the Pope, sent, himself, 
the said messenger to the conspi- 
rator ; only, in all probability, the 
messenger did not know for what 
purpose.” 

“ And for what purpose did he send 
him ?” 

u Go up stairs to your guest’s 
room, Master Bernouillet, lift up the 
quilt, look about his neck, and you 
will learn.” 

u Hola, you frighten me !” 

u I say no more, Master Bernouil- 
let. This act of justice has been 
executed in your house, Master Ber- 
nouillet. You have been greatly 
honored by the Pope.” 

With these words, Chicot slipped 
ten golden crowns into the host’s 
hand ; he then went to the stable, and 
ordered forth the two horses. 

Meanwhile, the host had clam- 
bered up stairs more nimbly than the 
squirrel, and had entered Nicholas 
David’s room. 

He found there Gorenflot, at 
prayers. 

He went over to the bed, and, as 
he had been instructed, lifted up the 
covering. 

The wound was there in the place 
indicated, and still red ; but the 
body was already cold. 

u So perish all enemies of our holy 
religion !” said he, making a sign of 
intelligence to Gorenflot. 

u Amen !” responded the monk. 

These events occurred about the 
same time that Bussy was restoring 
Diana de Meridor to the arms of her 
father, who had believed her dead. 

r 


CHAPTER X. 

HOW THE DUKE OF ANJOU LEARNED 

THAT DIANA DE MERIDOR WAS 

NOT DEAD. 

Meanwhile, the last days of April 
had arrived. 

The grand cathedral of Chartred 
was hung with white draperies, and 
on the pillars, sheaves of foliage — it 
will be borne in mind, that at the 
time of the year we are now speaking 
of, foliage was still a rarity — and on 
the pillars, we say, sheaves of foliage 
replaced the absent flowers. 

The King, bare-footed, as he had 
walked from the gate .of Chartres, 
stood in the centre of the nave, look- 
ing round from time to time, to see if 
all his courtiers and all his friends 
were present. But some, with feet 
blistered by the stone pavement, had 
resumed their shoes; others, exhaust- 
ed or hungry, were taking rest or 
eating in some way-tavern, into 
which they smuggled themselves ; 
while only a small number had the 
courage to remain in the church, 
standing on the damp flag-stones, in 
long penitent robes, the only covering 
of their wearied limbs. 

The religious ceremony, which had 
for its object to obtain from heaven 
the blessing of an heir to the throne 
of France, was being celebrated ; 
the two tunics of our Lady, the vir- 
tues of which could not be doubted, 
seeing the many miracles they were 
known to have accomplished, had 
been drawn forth from their shrines 
of gold ; and the people, who had 
assembled in vast crowds to witness 
the solemnity, were bending under 
the blaze of light which beamed from 
the tabernacle, the moment the pre- 
cious relics emerged from the inte- 
rior. 

Just then, the profound and so- 
lemn silence was broken by a strange 
noise — a noise resembling a burst of 
suppressed laughter. Henry the 
Third looked round to see if Chicot 
were not there, for he judged that 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


209 


none but Chicot would be bold 
enough to laugh on such an occasion. 

Nevertheless, it was not Chicot 
who laughed when the tunics made 
their appearance ; for Chicot, alas ! 
was absent, a circumstance exceed- 
ingly annoying to the King, who, it 
will be recollected, had lost sight of 
him at Fontainbleau, and had seen 
nothing of him since. 

It was a knight who had been land- 
ed at the church door by his still 
smoking horse, and who had made his 
way, with his bespattered boots and 
clothes, through the crowd of cour- 
tiers, muffled up in penitent robes and 
cowls, and all of them bare-footed. 

Seeing the King turning round, he 
paused boldly in the middle of the 
choir, but still with an air of profound 
respect. By his attitude, rather than 
by the elegance of his costume, it 
was easy to see that he was a man of 
stout heart. 

Henry, displeased at seeing this 
knight arrive so late and make so 
much disturbance — displeased, also, 
at seeing him differ in his dress from 
the monastic uniform which was the 
order of the day, cast toward him a 
glance of reproach and indignation. 

The new comer did not seem to 
notice the monarch’s displeasure ; 
stepping over several flag-stones, on 
which were sculptured various episco- 
pal effigies, and making his shoes — 
pont-levis — which were then the 
fashion — creak, he went and knelt by 
the velvet chair of my lord, the Duke 
of Anjou. His Highness, who was 
absorbed in his own thoughts rather 
than in prayer, paid no attention to 
what was passing in his neighborhood. 

* Nevertheless, when he felt the con- 
tact of the new comer, he turned has- 
tily round and exclaimed, in a sup- 
pressed voice — u Bussy !” 

“ I wish your Highness good day,” 
said the gentleman, as if he had only 
left the duke the day previous, and 
as if nothing had occurred since they 
had seen each other. 

u You must be out of your senses,” 
s id the prince 


u Why, my lord ?’’ 
u For leaving where you were, nc 
ipatter how situated, and coming here 
to see our Lady’s tunics.” 

u My lord, I must have discourse 
with you instantly.’’ 

u Why did you not come sooner ?” 
u Probably, because it was impos- 
sible.” 

u What has passed since we met 
last, now full three weeks ago ?” 
u It is precisely what I have to tell 
you.” 

u Bah ! you can wait until church 
is over.” 

u Alas ! I must wait, and it is the 
very thing that annoys me !” 

u Hush ! we are at the end — take 
patience, we will return to my quar- 
ters together. ’’ 

u That I am determined on, my 
lord.” 

The prince was right. The King 
had just passed over his fine linen 
shirts one of the coarse tunics of our 
Lady, and the Queen, with the assist- 
ance of her women, had done the 
same. 

Then the King knelt down, and 
so did the Queen. Both remained 
for a moment under a stupendous 
canopy, praying with all their hearts, 
while the assembly, in order to make 
court to the King, inclined prostrate 
on the ground. 

After which, the King rose and put 
off the holy tunic, bowed to the arch- 
bishop and to the Queen, and direct- 
ed his steps toward the door of the 
cathedral. 

But, on his way, he stopped ; he 
had just perceived Bussy. 

u So, sir,” he said, u it would seem 
that our devotions are not to your 
taste ; you could not be induced to 
lay aside silk and gold, while your 
King had put on sack-cloth and 
serge !” 

u Sire,” said Bussy, with dignity, 
but changing color from impatience 
with the manner in which he was 
accosted; u no one has so much at 
heart as myself your Majesty’s ser- 
vice, not even among those whose gar- 


14 


210 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ments arc most lowly, and whose feet 
are most blistered ; but I have only 
just returned from a long and weari- 
some journey, and I only learned this 
morning your Majesty’s departure for 
Chartres. I have, therefore, made 
sixty-six miles in five hours to join 
your Majesty. This is the reason 
why I had no time to change my dress, 
an incident, for the rest, which your 
Majesty would not have noticed, if, 
instead of hastening to unite my 
humble prayers with your Majesty’s, 
I had remained in Paris.” 

The King appeared to be passably 
well satisfied with this answer, but as 
he had looked toward his friends, who 
had shrugged their shoulders as they 
listened to Bussy’s explanation, he 
feared to offend them by exhibiting 
any graciousness to his brother’s 
knight, and so he passed on. 

Bussy remained calm and unmoved. 

“ What !” said the Duke, “ did 
you not see ? Did you not see that 
Schomberg, Maugiron and Quelus 
shrugged their shoulders while you 
were speaking ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, I saw it perfectly 
well,” said Bussy, quietly ; “ but, does 
your Highness imagine that I am 
going to cut the throat of my fellow- 
creatures, or nearly such, in a church ? 
I am too good a Christian for that.” 

44 Oh, very well,” said the Duke 
of Anjou, astonished. 44 I thought 
that you had not seen, or that you 
nad not wanted to see.” 

Bussy shrugged his shoulders in 
his turn, but as soon as the party was 
outside the church door, he took the 
prince aside. 

“At your Highness’s quarters?” 
said he. 

44 Immediately, for you must have 
many things to tell me.” 

44 Yes, in truth, my lord ; and 
things you little dream of, I am cer- 
tain.” 

The duke looked at Bussy with 
surprise. 

44 It is as I say,” added Bussy. 

44 Well, let me go and take leave 
of the King, and then I will hear you.” 


The duke went and made hia 
obeisance to his brother, who, being 
disposed to indulgence by the special 
grace of our Lady, gave the duke of 
Anjou permission to return to Paris 
whenever he pleased. 

He then hastened back to Bussy, 
and shut himself up with him in a 
room of the residence that had been 
assigned to him. 

u Do you know,” said he, 44 that 
such was the satisfaction caused by 
your disappearance, that the whole 
court put on white garments, and that 
many breasts breathed freely, for the 
first time, since you have known 
how to handle a sword. But this is 
not the business in hand. Come, 
you left me to go in pursuit of a 
fair incognita. Who was she, and 
what have you to tell me 

44 You will have to reap what you 
have sown, my lord ; that is to say, 
much shame.” 

44 What do you say ?” exclaimed 
the Duke, more astonished by Bussy’s 
strange language, than by his irre- 
verent manner. 

44 My lord has heard,” said Bussy, 
coldly ; 44 it would be useless to re- 
peat.” 

u Explain youself, sir, and leave 
enigmas and anagrams to Chicot.” 

44 Oh, nothing will be easier, my 
lord. I shall merely appeal to your 
memory.’’ 

44 But, who was the woman ?” 

44 I thought that my lord had re- 
cognized her.” 

u It was she then ?” cried the duke. 
44 Yes, my lord.” 

44 You have seen her r 1 ’’ 

“ Yes.” 

“You have spoken to her ?” 

44 Of course ; ghosts are sometimes 
speechless, but living human beings, 
never. But, perhaps my lord had 
reason to believe that she was dead, 
and hoped that she was.” 

The duke changed c&lor, and re- 
mained as if overwhelmed by the se- 
vere words of him who was professed- 
ly one of his courtiers. 

44 Yes, my lord,” continued Bussy, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


211 


a although you drove to extremity a 
young maiden of noble race, she has 
survived that extremity : but breathe 
not yet — think not that you are yet 
absolved, for while she has preserved 
life, she has fallen on a misfortune 
greater than death.” 

u What is it — what has happened?” 
asked the trembling prince. 

“ My lord, a man was found equal 
to the task of preserving her honor, 
and of preserving her life ; but he has 
exacted such reward for his services, 
that it is to be regretted that he ever 
rendered them.” 

u Go on — what next ?” 

“ Well, my lord, the Demoiselle 
de Meridor, to escape the eager arms 
of my lord the Duke of Anjou, whose 
mistress she would not consent to be, 
the Demoiselle de Meridor has thrown 
herself into the arms of a man whom 
she execrates.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that Diana de Meridor is 
now Madame de Monsoreau.” 

At these words, instead of the pal- 
lor which usually overspread the fea- 
tures of Francis, the blood rushed so 
violently to his head, that it seemed 
ready to start from his eyes. 

“ Sang du Christ !” cried the ex- 
asperated prince, “ is this true ?” 

“ Pardieu /” answered Bussy, in 
his haughty manner, “ I have said it.” 
“ You misunderstand me,” re- 
sumed the prince. “ I was not ex- 
pressing any suspicion of your ve- 
racity, Bussy, I was only asking my- 
self if it could be possible that one 
of my followers — a Monsoreau — has 
had the audacity to protect against 
me a woman whom I honored by my 
passion.” 

“ And why not ?” returned Bussy. 
“ Then you would have done as he 
has done ?” 

“ I would have done better, my 
lord, for I would have warned you 
that your honor was going astray.” 

“ A moment, Bussy,” said the 
duke, resuming his calmness, “ listen, 
if you please. I am not in the habit 
of justifying myself, my dear fellow.” 


“ And you are wrong, mon prince, 
for you are nothing but a gentleman, 
a simple gentleman, where knightly 
conduct is the question.” 

“ Well, that is precisely my reason 
for asking you to be Monsieur de 
Monsoreau’s judge.” 

“ I ?” 

“ Yes, you, and to tell me if he 
has not proved traitor ; traitor to 
me.” 

“ To you !” 

“To me, with whose purpose he 
was acquainted.” 

“ And your Highness’s purpose 
was — ” 

“To win Diana’s love, of course.” 
“To win her love ?” 

“ Yes, but in no case to employ 
violence.” 

“ Such was your purpose, my 
lord !” rejoined Bussy, smiling ironi- 
cally. 

“ Certainly, and that purpose 1 
adhered to, up to the very last mo- 
ment, although Monsieur de Monso- 
reau exerted all his powers of reason- 
ing to persuade me to act different- 
ly.” 

“ My lord, my lord, what are you 
saying ? This man urged you to 
dishonor Diana ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By his advice ?” 

“ By his letters. Would you see 
his letters ?” 

“ Oh !” cried Bussy, “if I could 
believe this !” 

“ Wait a moment, and you shall 

see.” 

The duke ran to a small box which 
was in the permanent charge of one 
of his pages, in his closet, and drew 
from it a note, which he handed to 
Bussy. 

“ Read,” said he, “ since you 
doubt your prince’s word.” 

Bussy received the note, with a 
hand trembling from doubt, and 
read : 

“ My lord : 

“ Your Highness may sleep in 
peace ; the coup-de-main will be exe- 
cuted, for the young person in ques- 


212 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


tion is to start this evening, on a 
week’s visit to the Chateau de Lude ; 
I will undertake it myself, and you 
need not be in the least anxious about 
the result. As for the maiden’s scru- 
ples, rest assured that they will 
vanish, as soon as she finds herself 
in your Highness’s presence. Mean- 
while, rely upon me — and this 
evening, she shall be at the Chateau 
de Beauge'. 

u Your Highness’s very respectful 
servant, 

u Briant de Monsoreau.” 
u Well, what have you to say 
to that ?” asked the prince, after the 
noble had read the letter a second 
time. 

“ Isay that you are well served, my 
lord.” 

u You mean to say, that I am be- 
trayed.” 

u True, I forgot what followed.” 
u Befooled — the wretch ! He made 
me believe in the death of a 
woman — ” 

u Whom he stole for himself ! In 
sooth, it was a scurvy trick. But,” 
added Bussy, with biting irony, 
u Monsieur de Monsoreau’s passion 
must be his excuse.” 

“ Ah, you think so,” said the 
duke, with one of his sinister smiles. 

u Faith,” returned Bussy, u I have 
no opinion of my own — I think so if 
you think so.” 

u What would you do, in my 
place ? But stop — first, what has he 
done 

u He made the young maiden’s 
father believe that you were the 
ravisher. He was accepted as a pro- 
tector, and presented himself at the 
Chateau de Beauge, with a letter 
from the Baron de Meridor. In a 
word, with the assistance of a boat 
moored under her window, he carried 
olf the prisoner ; then shut her up in 
the house, you know, and drove her by 
threats and terror to become his wife.” 
u Infamous perfidy !” cried the duke. 
u A little thrown into the shade by 
your own, my lord,” said the noble, 
with his wonted boldness. 


u Ah, Bussy, you shall see whethei 
I know how to revenge myself !” 
u Revenge yourself ! Pooh, you 
surely will not think of it ?” 
u Why not ?” 

u Princes of the blood do not re- 
venge themselves — they punish. You 
will charge this Monsoreau with his 
infamy, and punish him.” 

“ How ?” 

u By restoring Mademoiselle de 
Meridor to happiness.” 

“ Can I do it ?” 
u Certainly.” 
u In what way ?” 
tc By restoring her to freedom.” 
u Come, explain yourself.” 
u Easily : the marriage was forced, 
and is therefore null and void.” 

“ You are right.” 
u Cause the marriage to be annul- 
led, and you will act, my lord, like a 
gentleman of honor, and a noble 
prince.” 

u Ah, ah,” said the suspicious 
prince, u what warmth ! This mat- 
ter seems to interest you, Bussy !” 

“ Not in the least ; except so far 
as I am interested, that it shall not 
be said that Louis de Bussy, Count 
de Clermont, served a perfidious 
prince, and a man without honor.” 
u Well, you shall see ! But, how 
is this marriage to be broken ?” 
u There will be no difficulty. Call 
in the father.” 

u The Baron de Meridor ?” 

“ Yes,” 

u But he is away, down in Anjou.” 
u He is here my lord, that is to say, 
in Paris.” 

u Under your roof?” 
u No ; with his daughter. Speak 
to him, my lord ; win his confidence ; 
let him see in your Highness, instead 
of what he has seen up to the present 
day, that is to say, an enemy — let 
him see a protector — and the man, 
who now execrates your name, will 
worship you as his good genius.” 
u He is a powerful lord in his 
country, and I am assured that his 
influence extends all over the pro- 
nnce ’ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


213 


44 Yes, my lord ; but there is one 
thing you must remember, above all — 
it is, that he is a father — that his 
daughter is wretched, and that her 
wretchedness is his misery.” 
u When can I see him r” 

44 Instantly, on your return to 
Paris.” 

44 So be it.” 

44 It is agreed, my lord — is it 
not ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 On the honor of a gentleman ?” 
44 On the honor of a prince.” 

44 When will you start ?” 

44 This evening. Will you wait for 
me ?” 

44 No : I shall hasten on before.” 
44 Go, and hold yourself ready.” 

44 You will find me prompt and 
willing. Where shall I meet your 
Highness.” 

u At the King’s morning levee.” 

44 1 shall be there, my lord. God 
be with you !” 

Bussy lost not a moment, and 
the journey which it took the duke, 
sleeping in his litter, fifteen hours to 
make, the young noble, whose heart 
was in Paris, performed in five. But 
then, an old man, to whom he had 
promised comfort, and Diana, to 
whom he was bearing the better part 
of life, were awaiting his return. 


CHAPTER XI. 

ROW CHICOT RETURNED TO THE LOU- 
VRE, AND WAS RECEIVED BY KING 
HENRY III. 

The inmates of the Louvre were still 
in their slumbers, for it was only 
eleven o’clock in the forenoon. The 
court guards moved noiselessly about, 
and the voices of the gentlemen on 
duty were hushed. 

The King was resting after his 
weary pilgrimage. 

Two men presented themselves, at 


the same time, at the principal gate of 
the Louvre : one bestrode a barb per- 
fectly fresh and full of spirit — the 
other, an Andalusian, covered with 
flaky foam. 

They stopped in front of the gate, 
and gazed at each other ; for, having 
come from opposite directions, they 
had not previously met. 

44 Monsieur de Chicot,” cried the 
younger of the two, saluting, with 
marked urbanity, 44 how do you find 
yourself this morning ?” 

44 Heigh ! Lord de Bussy. Ex- 
ceedingly well, sir;” replied Chicot, 
with an ease and courtesy which indi- 
cated the gentleman, at least as much 
as Bussy’s salute indicated the great 
noble and accomplished knight. 

44 You are going to attend the 
King’s levee ?” asked Bussy. 

44 Yes ; and I presume that you are, 
too.” 

44 No. I have come to pay my res- 
pects to the Duke of Anjou. You 
know, Monsieur de Chicot,” added 
Bussy, smiling, 44 that I have not the 
happiness of being one of His Ma- 
jesty’s favorites.” 

44 It is the King’s misfortune, and 
not yours, sir, in my opinion.” 

Bussy bowed. 

44 Have you travelled far ?” asked 
Bussy. 44 1 heard that you were jour- 
neying.” 

44 l r es, sir ; I have been chasing — 
but you, yourself, have you not like- 
wise been travelling 

44 Yes, I have been taking a run 
into the country — and now, sir,” con- 
tinued Bussy, 44 will you be kind 
enough to render me a service ?” 

44 A service ! Whenever it shall 
please Monsieur de Bussy to use me 
for any purpose whatever,” said Chi- 
cot, 44 he will confer infinite honor 
on me.” 

44 Well — as you are a privileged 
being, you will easily make your way 
to the inner apartments of the pa- 
lace, while I must wait in the ante- 
chamber. Will you, therefore, be 
kind enough to notify the Duke of 
Anjou that I am here r” 


214 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ My lord, the Duke of Anjou is 
at the Louvre, and is doubtless going 
to attend His Majesty’s levee. Why 
not,” said Chicot, “ enter with me ?” 

“ I fear the King’s frown.” 

“Bah!” 

“You know he has not as yet ac- 
customed me to his gracious smile.” 

“ Rest assured that there will soon 
be a change.” 

“ Ah, you are a magician, Monsieur 
Chicot.” 

“ Sometimes. Come, pluck up. 
Come, Monsieur de Bussy.” 

Accordingly, they entered toge- 
ther, and directed their steps, the one 
towards the quarters of the Duke of 
Anjou, who occupied, as we believe has 
already been mentioned, the former 
apartments of Queen Margaret — the 
other towards the King’s room. 

Henry III. had just awaked ; he had 
just struck the loud drum, and va- 
lets and friends were crowding the 
royal chamber ; already the chicken 
broth, the spiced wines, and the 
meat pasties, were served up, when 
gamesome Chicot reached his august 
master’s presence, and began, before 
saying a word, to eat and drink. 

u Par la Mordieu /” cried the King, 
delighted, although he put on the 
semblance of anger ; “ here is that 
scoundrel Chicot ! A runaway — a 
vagabond — a caitiff!” 

“ There, there ; what is the mat- 
ter, my son ?” said Chicot, seating 
himself without ceremony, and with 
his boots covered with dust, on the 
immense couch, with its rich coverlet, 
worked with golden lilies, on which 
Henrv III. was reclining. “We for- 
get the return from Poland, when 
we acted the stag’s part, and the mag- 
nates the part of hounds — Tally- 
ho — T ally-ho” — 

“ H ere is my plague back again,” 
said Henry. “ I shall have nothing 
save what is disagreeable. I have had 
an easy time of it these three weeks 
past.” 

“ Bah, bah !” said Chicot. “ You 
are always grumbling. The deuce 
take me, if you are not like one of 


your own subjects, Come, what have 
you been doing during my absence, 
my little Henry? Have you been 
dabbling, as usual, in your funny 
way, in affairs of state ?” 

“ Monsieur Chicot !” 

“ Are our subjects enjoying the 
fun? Ahem” — 

“ Caitiff!” 

“ Have anv of the little frizzled 
gentlemen been hung ? Oh, I beg 
pardon, Monsieur de Quelus — I did 
not see you.” 

“Chicot, we shall quarrel.” 

“And does any money remain in 
our strong boxes, or in those of the 
Jews ! If so, we want it. We would 
amuse ourselves, ventre de biche. 
Life is a weary journey.” 

With these words he finished the 
daintily brown pastry, on which he 
had been busily employed in the in- 
tervals of his questions. 

The King fell to laughing. Such 
was the invariable termination of 
Chicot’s fooleries. 

“ Come,” said he, “ what have 
you been doing during your long ab- 
sence ?” 

“ I have been planning and design- 
ing a little pilgrimage in three acts. 

“ Act first. — Pilgrims, wearing no- 
thing but shirts and hose, pulling 
each other’s hair, and every man 
heartily cufling his neighbor, proceed 
from the Louvre to Montmartre. 

“ Act second. — The same pilgrims, 
naked to the waist, and whipping 
each other with beads fashioned like 
sharp thorns, proceed from Montmar- 
tre to the Abbey of Saint-Genevieve. 

“ Act third. — The same pilgrims, 
quite naked, cutting and lashing each 
other’s backs with switches and lea- 
ther straps, proceed from the Abbey 
of Genevieve back to the Louvre. 

“ By way of climax, I thought of 
making the whole party pass through 
the Place de Greve, where the com- 
mon hangman was to have burned 
them all, from the first to the last ; 
but I reflected that the Lord must 
have some of the sulphur of Sodom 
and of the bitumen of Gomorrah 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


215 


left, and I would not deprive him of | 
the pleasure of doing the frying part 
of the business himself. In the mean- 
time, gentlemen, and while we are ex- 
pecting that day, let us be merry.” 
u Be it so,” said the King, u and 
in the first place, where have you 
been? You must know that I have 
had a search made for you in every 
wicked hole and corner in Paris.” 

44 Did you search the Louvre ?” 

44 Some roystering rogue from 
among your select friends had laid 
his hands on you.” 

44 That could not have been, Hen- 
ry, for you have your hands on all 
the roysterers in the kingdom.” 

44 I am wrong, then ?” 

44 Oh, Mon Dieu! yes. As you 
always are.” 

44 I suppose that you will pretend 
that you were doing penance.” 

44 You have hit it. I have been 
just tasting a little religion, to see 
what it was, and faith, I did not taste 
much. I have had enough of monks. 
Out upon the nasty creatures !” 

At this moment, Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau entered the King’s presence, 
bowing with the deepest respect. 

44 Ah, is that you, Monsieur le 
Grand Veneur,” said Henry. u When 
shall we have a rare hunt? Speak.” 
44 When it shall please your Ma- 
jesty. I have understood that boars 
are plenty at Saint-Germaine-en- 
Laye.” 

u The boar is a dangerous animal,” 
gaid Chicot. 44 King Charles IX., I 
remember, ran near being killed once, 
while chasing the boar ; and then the 
spears are hard, and blister our little 
hands. Is it not so, my son ?” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau knit his 
brows at Chicot. 

44 l am pretty certain,” added the 
Gascon, addressing himself to Hen- 
ry, 44 that your Grand Huntsman has 
recently met with a wolf.” 

44 Why so ?” 

44 Because, like the clouds of the 
poet Aristophanes, he has retained 
the features of one ; the eye, especial- 
ly, is very striking.” 


At this moment, another interlo- 
cutor joined the conversation. 

This was Bussy. 

44 Monsieur,’’ said he, accosting 
the count, 44 I have the honor to in- * 
form you that my lord the Duke of 
Anjou desires to speak to you.” 

44 To me?” said Monsoreau, un- 
easily. 

u To you, sir,” said Bussy. 
Monsoreau cast toward the mes- 
senger a look which was intended to 
penetrate into the very depths of his 
soul — an intention which was effect- 
ually defeated by Bussy ’s calm and 
untroubled aspect. 

44 Do you bear me company, sir ?’* 
said the Grand Huntsman to Bussy. 

44 No, sir: while you are taking 
your leave of the King, I shall hasten 
to inform his Highness that you are 
preparing to obey his orders.” 

With these words, Bussy departed 
as he came, gliding amid the courtier* 
with his wonted ease and expertness 
The Duke of Anjou was actually 
awaiting in his closet Monsoreau’r 
coming, and by way of preparatior 
for his interview with him, was re 
perusing the letter, the contents on 
which have been already communi 
cated to the reader. Hearing the 
door curtains move, he took it for 
granted that Monsoreau was about to 

O 

enter, and hid the letter. 

Bussy entered. 

44 Well r” said the duke. 

44 Well, my lord, he will be here 
presently.” 

44 He suspects nothing ?” 

44 Suppose he did ? Is he not your 
creature ? You have made him — can 
you not unmake him ?” 

44 Of course,” said the duke, wit^ 
the pre-occupied air, which the ap_ 
proach of events demanding a display 
of energy, always gave him. 

4 4 Is he less guilty in your eyes to-, 
day than he wns yesterday ?’’ 

44 Rather a hundred times more 
guilty. His crimes are of that class 
I which reflection magnifies.” 

44 Beside,’ said Bussy, 44 the inat- 
* ter lies in a nutshell. He has carried 


216 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


» 


off, by nefarious means, a young 
maiden of noble birth. He has com- 
pelled her to marry him by fraud and 
terror. Either he himself must so- 
licit the dissolution of his pretended 
marriage, or you will demand it in 
his stead.’’ 

u 1 am resolved that it shall be 


so. 




u Recollect that you have pledged 
your word to me in the name of the 
father, in the name of the young 
maiden, in the name of the Chateau 
de Meridor, in Diana’s name.” 
u You have my word.” 
u Bethink yourself, my lord, that 
they are warned ; and that they are 
awaiting with anxiety the result of 
your interview with their oppressor.” 
a The young maiden shall be free, 
Bussy ; you have my word.” 

u Oh, if you accomplish this, you 
will really be a great prince, my 


lord. 


y> 


He took the duke’s hand, that 
same hand which had signed so many 
false promises, which had witnessed 
so many broken engagements, and 
kissed it respectfully. 

Presently, steps were heard in the 
passage. 

u Here he is,” said Bussy. 

u Show in Monsieur de Monsoreau,” 
the duke, in a stern voice, from 
[ Bussy augured well, 
is time, the young noble, almost 
n of attaining the end he so 
bly desired, could not avoid 
' to his features a slight turn of 
il pride, as he returned Monso- 
salute. On the other hand, 
>rand Huntsman’s glassy eye 
ed no expression of the senti- 
which were working in the re- 
af his heart. 

y kept watch in the corridor 
hich we have already made 
itance, the same corridor, in 
one night, La &ole had nar- 
scaped strangulation with the 
i girdle, at the hands of 
IX., Henry III., the Duke of 
and the Duke of Guise, 
ridor, with the corresponding 


landing-place, was, on the present oc- 
casion, crowded with gentlemen who 
were waiting to make their court to 
the duke. 

Bussy took his place among them 
Every one gave way to him, as much 
in consideration of his own personal 
popularity, as of the esteem in which 
he was held by the Duke of Anjou. 
The gallant knight hugged his sensa- 
tions to himself, and giving no out- 
ward sign of the terrible agony of his 
heart, waited the result of an inter- 
view on which all his happiness to 
come rested. 

The conversation between the duke 
and Monsieur de Monsoreau could 
not fail to be animated ; Bussy had 
seen enough of the latter to feel con- 
vinced that he would not allow him- 
self to be vanquished without a strug- 
gle. But, after all, it would only be 
necessary for the Duke of Anjou to 
lay his hand upon him, and if he 
would not bend, why then he would 
break. 

All of a sudden, the well known 
sound of the prince’s voice reached 
Bussy’^ ears. The voice seemed to 
command. 

A thrill of joy shot through Bussy’s 
frame. 

u Ah,” said he to himself, u the 
duke is keeping his word.” 

But no sound followed ; the cour- 
tiers looked anxiously round, con- 
versation was hushed into whispers, 
and gradually into profound silence. 

Restless, troubled in his dream of 
success, now floating on the tide of 
hope, and the next instant carried 
back by the ebb of fear, Bussy counted 
the minutes as they slowly passed. 

A quarter of an hour had elapsed, 
when the door of the duke’s chamber 
suddenly opened, and through the 
hangings could be heard the sound of 
voices in cheerful conversation. 

Bussy knew that the Duke was 
alone with the Grand Huntsman, and 
that if their interview had resulted 
as he hoped and expected, it should 
be anything but cheerful at that mo- 
ment. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


217 


He trembled in every limb. What 
had he to expect ? 

The voices soon drew nigh, and the 
door curtain was drawn aside. Mon- 
soreau issued forth, stepping back- 
ward and bowing. The duke accom- 
panied him as far as the threshold of 
his chamber, saying : 

“ Adieu, notre ami ! It is agreed 
upon.” 

44 Notre ami !” murmured Bussy, 
44 Sandieu, what does this mean ?” 

44 And so, my lord,” said Monso- 
reau, with his face still turned to- 
ward the prince, 44 it is your High- 
ness’s opinion that the best thing to 
be done under the circumstances will 
be to make it public.” 

44 Yes, yes,” said the duke, 44 mys- 
tery is child’s play.” 

44 Then,” said the Grand Hunts- 
man, 44 I shall present her to the 
King this very evening.” 

44 Act without fear ; I will pave the 
way.” 

The dulte leaned over toward the 
Grand Huntsman, and whispered a 
few words in his ear. 

44 It shall be done, my lord,” said 
the latter. 

Monsoreau made his last bow to 
the duke, who was surveying the 
audience. Bussy, he could not s§e ; 
the stricken gentleman and gallant 
knight was concealed by the folds of 
a curtain, to which he was obliged to 
cling to avoid falling. 

44 Gentlemen,” resumed Monso- 
reau, turning toward the bystanders 
who were waiting audience, and who 
were already prepared to conciliate a 
favorite, who was likely to throw Bus- 
sy into the shade , 44 gentlemen, allow 
me to announce an event ; my lord 
permits me to make public my mar- 
riage with Mademoiselle Diana de 
Meridor, who has been my wife for 
two months past. I have likewise 
his Highness’s permission to present 
her at court this evening, under his 
Highness’s auspices.” 

Bussy staggered : although the blow 
was no longer unexpected, it was so 
violent that he nearly sank under it. 


Not until then did he stretch for- 
ward his head from behind the cur- 
tain drapery which had hitherto con- 
cealed his entire person. But the 
duke and he, both pale from different 
emotions, now exchanged one look — of 
contempt on the part of Bussy, and 
of terror on the part of the duke. 

Monsoreau passed through the 
group of courtiers, receiving on all 
sides compliments and congratula- 
tions. 

As for Bussy he made a movement 
to approach the duke ; but the latter 
saw it, and anticipated it by letting 
fall the door curtain : at the same 
time, the door behind the curtain was 
shut to, and the creaking of the key 
in the lock became audible. 

Bussy felt the hot blood which swell- 
ed his heart, rush impetuously to his 
temples. His hand, meeting the dag- 
ger which hung at his waist-belt, drew 
it instinctively half out of its scab- 
bard; for he was a man almost inca- 
pable of resisting a first impulse of 
passion. But that very love which 
suggested violence, helped to subdue 
its fury ; bitter, profound, and thril- 
ling grief smothered anger. Ah, his 
heart was well nigh bursting! 

^ In this paroxysm of two passions 
struggling for supremacy, Bussy ’s en- 
erg} r succumbed. Thus two angry 
waves, which seem to threaten heaven 
itself, after meeting in the shock of 
contention in their highest point of ele- 
vation, will subside to a common level. 

Bussy felt that were he to remain 
where he was, his insensate grief would 
be paraded before the whole court ; ho 
rushed through the corridor, reached 
the private staircase, made his way 
to the court-yard of the Louvre 
through a postern, jumped on his 
horse, and gallopped in the direction 
of the Rue St. Antoine. 

The baron and Diana were awaiting 
Bussy’s return : they saw the young 
noble appear before them, pale, his 
features in commotion, and his eyes 
blood-shot. 

Diana understood all, and shrieked 
aloud. 


218 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Madame,” cried Bussy, “ despise 
me, hate me ; I thought myself some- 
thing in this world, and I am in reality 
nothing hut a helpless atom. I thought 
I could do something, and I cannot 
even burst my own heart. Madame, 
you are the fast wife of Monsieur de 
Monsoreau — his lawful wife, and are 
to be presented as such, at court, this 
very evening ! Oh, I am a poor idiot 
- — a wretched madman, or rather — or 
rather — as you have said, Monsieur 
le Baron — the Duke of Anjou is the 
basest and most cowardly of men !” 
Amd leaving the father and daugh- 
ter dismayed and terror-struck, Bus- 
sy went out of the room, ran head- 
long down stairs, jumped on his horse, 
drove his spurs into him, and, with- 
out knowing whither he was going, 
letting the bridle loose — for his hands 
were clasped over his heaving heart — 
he rode away, sowing, on his passage, 
fright and amazement among all be- 
holders 


CHAPTER XII. 

jk 

WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MY LORD 
THE DUKE OF ANJOU AND THE 
GRAND HUNTSMAN. 

* 

It is time we should account for the 
sudden change in the Duke of Anjou’s 
manner toward Bussy. 

The duke, when he received Mon- 
soreau, being still under the influence 
of Bussy ’s incitements, was in a mood 
e^remely favorable to the views of 
that gentleman. His choler, easily 
excited at all times, was now flowing 
over from a heart touched in two of 
its tenderest points : the duke’s self- 
love had been wounded, and the fear 
of public odium and scandal, with 
which he had been threatened by 

4/ 

Bussy, in Monsieur de Meridor’s 
name, served to fan the flame of re- 
sentment. 

In fact, two sentiments of the na- 
ture we are describing, when combin- 


ed together, are apt to produce terri- 
ble explosions, especially when the 
heart that contains them, like certain 
engines of war, is so solidly construct- 
ed, and so hermetically closed, as to 
give treble force to the explosion. 

My Lord of Anjou, consequently, 
gave the Grand Huntsman one of 
those sinister receptions, which were 
wont to cause the boldest man at 
court to tremble ; for the resources of 
Francis, in matters of revenge, were 
known to all. 

u Your Highness sent forme,” said 
Monsoreau, very calmly, and glancing 
at the tapestry ; for, practised as he 
was in the ways of the prince, he sus- 
pected the existence of fires slumbering 
beneath the icy coldness of his exte- 
rior, and it might have been said, that 
he was calling upon the wall to ex- 
plain its master’s secrets. 

u Fear nothing, sir,” said the 
duke, who saw through him — u there 
is no one behind the arras. We can 
talk freely, and what is more to be 
valued, frankly.” 

Monsoreau bowed. 

u For you are a good servant, 
Monsieur le Grand Veneur de France, 
and you bear an attachment to my 
person. ” 

u I hope so, may it please your 
Highness.” 

O 

u I am convinced of it, sir. You 
have many a time and oft informed 
me of plots laid for my undoing — 
you have assisted me in my under- 
takings, often forgetful of your own 
interests, and freely exposing your 
life.” 


J 


u My lord !” 

“ All this I myself know. It was 
only the other day — I must needs 
remind you of it, for really you are 
possessed of so much delicacy, that 
mere allusions fail to awaken the 
sense of the services you render — it 
was only the other day, in that un- 
fortunate adventure” — 

u What adventure, my lord r” 
u That carrying off of Mademoi- 
selle de Meridor — poor young maid- 
en !” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


219 


“ Alas !” muttered Monsoreau, a 
comment on the duke’s remark sus- 
ceptible of a double interpretation. 

“ Y^ou pity her — do you not ?” 
B&id the duke, to bring Monsoreau to 
closer quarters. 

“ Does not your Highness pity 
her?” 

“ I — oh ! if you knew how deeply 
I have deplored a whim that turned 
out so fatally. Indeed, let me assure 
you, that it required all the friendship 
] entertained toward you — all my 
trust in your devotion to my service, 
to make me forget that had it not 
been for you, I should not have car- 
ried off that maiden.” 

Monsoreau winced. 

“ Can this be remorse ?” said he 
to himself. 

“ My lord,” said he, “ your natu- 
ral benevolence of disposition induces 
you to exaggerate : you are no more 
the cause of that young maiden’s 
death than I am” — 

“ Proceed.” 

“ Certainly, you had no intention 
of using violence so far as to kill 
Mademoiselle de Meridor.” 

“ Oh, no !” 

“ Then, the intention absolves 
you, my lord — it was a misfortune — 
such a misfortune as chance occasions 
every day.” 

“ Beside,” added the duke, plung- 
ing into the depths of Monsd'reau’s 
soul, “ death has swept away the 
memory of all this.” 

A slight vibration in the prince’s 
voice was sufficient to put Monsoreau 
on his guard. 

“ This is not remorse,” said he to 
himself. 

u My lord,” he resumed,’’ shall 
I speak frankly ?” 

“ Why should you hesitate ?” said 
the prince, with mingled astonishment 
and resentment. 

“ True,” said Monsoreau: “ I 

know not why I should hesitate.” 

“ What means all this ?” 

“ Oh, my lord, I mean to say that 
eminent as you are, alike by capacity 
and nobility of heart, frankness must 


enter from this time forth, as a prin- 
cipal element into this conversation.” 
“ From this time forth — explain 
yourself !’’ 

“ In the outset, your Highness 
did not deem it proper to be frank 
with me.” 

“ Indeed !” rejoined the duke 
with a burst of laughter which betray- 
ed his angry fury. 

“ Hear me, my lord,” said Mon- 
soreau, humbly — “ I know what your 
Highness has to say to me.’’ 

“Go on!” 

“ Your Highness intended to sug- 
gest to me that perhaps Mademoi- 
selle de Meridor was not dead, and 
that her supposed murderer had 
no need for remorse.’’ 

“ Oh ! what a prodigious effort it 
seems to have cost you, sir, to reach 
this consolatory conclusion ! A faith- 
ful servant, by my troth. You have 
seen me melancholy and afflicted — 
you have heard me allude to the dis- 
tressing dreams which have visited 
me since the woman’s reported death, 
and you know that I am not maw- 
kishly inclined, thanks be to God — 
Well, you have allowed me to live 
on, when merely by the suggestion of 
a doubt, you had it in your power to 
allay my sufferings. How am I to 
designate your conduct, sir r” 

In uttering these words the duke 
ceased to dissimulate. Anger and 
fury had full play. 

“ My lord,” replied Monsoreau, 
“ this sounds as if your Highness in- 
tended to accuse me” — 

“ Traitor !” interrupted the duke, 
advancing a step toward the Grand 
Huntsman, “ I do accuse you, and 1 
shall sustain my accusation — you 
have deceived and robbed me of the 
woman I loved !” 

Monsoreau turned frightfully pale, 
but in nowise abated the calm lofti- 
ness of self-reliance. 

“It is true,” said he. 

“ Ah ! it is true — insolent knave.” 
“ Have the goodness to speak 
lower, my lord,” said Monsoreau, 
quietly. “ Your Highness forgets 


220 


DIANA OF MfcRIDOR; OR, 


that yon are speaking to a gentleman 
— to a faithful servant.” 

The duke hurst out into a con- 
vulsive laugh. 

44 To a faithful servant of the 
King’s,” continued Monsoreau, un- 
moved by the duke’s terrible threat. 

The duke stopped short ; a single 
word had struck his ear. 

4 ‘What do you mean ?” muttered he. 
44 1 mean,” rejoined Monsoreau, 
quietly and obsequiously ; 44 that if 
my lord will take the trouble to lis- 
ten to me, he will be convinced that 
I only took the woman because my 
lord wanted to take her.” 

The duke found no words to answer 
such excessive audacity. 

44 My excuse is this,” said the 
Grand Huntsman, with humility — 44 I 
ardently loved Mademoiselle de Me- 
ridor — ” 

44 1 loved her myself,” said Francis, 
with inexpressible dignity. 

44 True, my lord ; you are my mas- 
ter, but Mademoiselle de Meridor 
loved you not.” 

44 Did she love you ?” 

44 It may be,” murmured Monso- 
reau. 

44 You lie — you lie ! you forced 
her, just as I wanted to force her. I, 
though master, failed; while you, 
though valet, succeeded. But I had 
only power for my instrument, where- 
as you had treachery for yours.” 

44 My lord, I loved her.” 

44 What matters it to me ?” 

44 My lord—” 

44 Dare you threaten ?” 

44 My lord, beware !” said Monso- 
reau, stooping his head like the tiger 
preparing for his spring. 44 I loved 
her, I tell you, and I am not one of 
your valets, as you said just now. 
My wife is as much mine as my 
estate ; no one can take her from me, 
not even the King. To possess her 
was my ambition, and I have suc- 
ceeded ” 

44 Indeed !” said Francis, rushing 

7 O 

forward to reach the silver bell on the 
table ; fc4 you have her — well, you 
shall give her up.” 


44 You are mistaken, my lord,” 
cried Monsoreau, intercepting the 
prince ; 44 check your evil purpose 
toward me, for, if you do but call — if 
you once publicly insult me — ” 

44 You shall give her up, I tell you.” 

44 Give her up ! In what way? 
She is my wife — she is my wife before 
God.” 

Monsoreau had relied upon the 
effect of this word, but it did not in 
the least abate the prince’s irritation. 

44 Though she be your wife before 
God, you shall give her up to man !” 

44 Why, he knows all,” said Mon- 
soreau. 

44 Yes, I know all ; you shall break 
this marriage. I will break it, were 
its bonds witnessed by all the gods in 
heaven !” 

4 4 Ah ! my lord, this is blasphemy,” 
said Monsoreau. 

44 To-morrow, Mademoiselle de 
Meridor must be restored to her father 
— to-morrow, you will take your de- 
parture for such place of exile as I 
shall appoint. An hour hence, and 
you will sell your office of Grand 
Huntsman. These are my conditions. 
Comply with them, vassal, or I will 
destroy you, even as I destroy thi3 
glass !” 

With these words, the prince 
snatched up a cup of enamelled crys- 
tal, and threw it furiously toward 
Monstfreau, who remained surrounded 
by its fragments. 

44 1 will not give up my wife, I will 
not surrender my office, and I will 
not go into exile,” said Monsoreau, 
hastily approaching the astonished 
Francis. 

44 What will you do — confounded 
ruffian ?” 

44 I will petition the King of 
France for pardon. The King, elect- 
ed at the abbey of Saint Genevieve, 
and the new sovereign, rejoicing in 
recent evidences of the Divine favor, 
will not refuse to listen to his first 
suppliant for mercy.” 

Monsoreau had dwelt with progres- 
sive emphasis on each of + bese terrible 
words. The impetuo '"-ion 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


221 


which streamed from his eyes was 
gradually communicated to his 
speech. 

It was now Francis’s turn to change 
color: he stepped back, he let fall 
the heavy door-tapestry, and then, 
seizing Monsoreau by the hand, he 
said to him, faltering at each word, 
as if all strength had departed from 
him : 

u Good — good — count, let me hear 
your petition. Come, I am all atten- 
tion.” 

44 I shall speak humbly,” said Mon- 
soreau, suddenly recovering his calm- 
ness ; 44 humbly, as becomes an hum- 
ble servant of your Highness.” 

Francis walked slowly round the 
room, looking in fifty places behind 
the arras. He could with difficulty 
satisfy himself that Monsoreau’s 
words had not been heard. 

44 You were saying?” he resumed. 

44 I was saying that these unhappy 
events have all proceeded from love. 
Love, my royal master, is the most 
imperious of passions. To have for- 
gotten that you had cast your eyes on 
Diana, I must have been its slave.” 

44 I tell you, count, you betrayed 
your trust.” 

44 Do not overwhelm me, my lord : 
this was the idea which presented it- 
self to my mind. I saw you young, 
rich, happy — 1 saw you the first 
prince in Christendom.” 

The duke moved. 

44 For such you are,” whispered 
Monsoreau, in the duke’s ear ; 44 for 
between the very highest point of 
worldly greatness and yourself, there 
exists scarcely the shadow of an ob- 
stacle. I saw the splendid prospect 
before you, and, comparing the small 
treasure I coveted to the colossal pro- 
portions of your fortunes, blinded by 
the rays of your glory, I said to my- 
self : 4 Leave the prince to his splen- 
did dreams— to his vast conceptions ; 
he has his mark, mine is in the shade ; 
he will scarcely notice my retreat ; 
he will scarcely be aware of the loss 
of the small pearl I shall steal from 
his royal wreath.” 


44 Count, count !” said the duke, 
yielding, in spite of himself, to the 
contemplation of the flattering pic- 
ture thus insidiously held up to his 
view. 

44 You pardon me, do you not, my 
lord ?” 

At this moment, the duke raised 
his eyes he saw on the wall, hung 
with gilt letters, Bussy’s portrait, 
which he sometimes pleased himself 
by gazing at, as formerly he used to 
please himself by gazing at La Mole’s. 
The whole air of the portrait was so 
striking ; the round eye, the head erect, 
the arm resting on the hip ; that the 
duke imagined he saw Bussy himself — 
Bussy stepping out from the canvass, 
to re-animate his wavering courage. 

44 No,” said he, 44 I may not par- 
don you. Heaven is my witness, it 
is not for any reason personal to my- 
self, I insist upon severity, it is be- 
cause a father in grief, a father 
basely deceived, demands back his 
daughter — it is because a woman 
fooled into marriage with you, cries 
out for vengeance ; in a word, it is 
because the first duty of a prince is 
justice.” 

44 My lord — ” 

44 I repeat that justice is the first 
duty of a prince, and justice I will 
do—” 

44 If justice,” said Monsoreau, 44 be 
the first duty of a prince, gratitude 
is the first duty of a King.” 

44 What say you ?” 

44 I say that a King should never 
forget to whom he owes his crown. 
Now, my lord — ” 

44 Well?” 

44 You owe me your crown, Sire ?” 

44 Monsoreau !” cried the prince, 
with terror visibly greater than when 
the Grand Huntsman first commenced 
his attack, 44 Monsoreau,” resumed 
he, in a smothered and trembling 
voice, 44 are you then a traitor to the 
King, as you have been a traitor to 
the prince?” 

44 1 hold fast by him who sustains 
me, Sire !” continued Monsoreau, 
raising his voice still higher. 


222 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Sdeath !” cried tlie duke, look- 
ing again at Bussy’s portrait. u I 
cannot,” he continued — u you know 
yourself, Monsoreau, what are the 
claims of honor and duty, you must he 
aware that I cannot sanction your con- 
duct ” 

“ Why, my lord ?” 
u Because it was equally unworthy 
of you, and of me. Give up this 
woman, my dear count ; make this 
sacrifice, my dear count ; I will com- 
pensate you for it, in any way you 
shall ask.” 

“ Your Highness then still loves 
Diana de Meridor ?” rejoined Mon- 
soreau, pale with rage. 

“ No, I protest to you, no !” 

“ Then, what urges your Highness 
on ? She is my wife. Am I not a 
gentleman by birth? Who has the 
right to meddle in my domestic af- 
fairs ?” 

“ But she loves you not !” 
u What matters that ?” 
u Do thi^ much for me, Monso- 
reau — ” 

“ I cannot — ’ 

“Then,” said the duke, in a state 
of horrible perplexity — u then — ” 
u Bethink yourself, my lord !” 
The duke wiped the perspiration 
that moistened his forehead ; a single 
word uttered by Monsoreau, had been 
enough to agitate him thus. 

“ You will denounce me ?” 
u To the King dethroned by you, 
yes, may it please your Majesty, for 
were my new prince to wound me in 
my happiness ; in my honor, I would 
return to my old one.” 
u Oh, most perfidious !” 
u My passion is strong enough to 
render me perfidious.” 
u Oh, most base !” 
a Yes, may it please your Majesty, 
but my passion is strong enough to 
render me base.” 

The duke made a step toward 
Monsoreau, but the latter stopped 
him, by a single look, a single smile. 

“ You would gain nothing by kill- 
ing me, my lord,” said he, “ there 
are secrets which survive death ! Let 


us remain, you a King full of mercy, 
and I the lowliest of your sub- 
jects !” 

The duke clasped his hands, indent- 
ing them with his nails. 

u Come, my good lord, do some- 
thing for one who has been in all 
things your best of servants.” 

Francis rose. 

“ What do you ask ?” said he. 
u Your Majesty — ” 

“ Man, man ! must I implore you ?” 
u Oh, my lord !” 

And Monsoreau bowed. 

“ Speak,” faltered Francis. 

“ My lord, you pardon me ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u My lord, you will reconcile me 
with Monsieur de Meridor ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My lord, you will witness my 
marriage settlement ?” 

“ Yes,” said the duke, in a smoth- 
ered voice. 

u I shall present my wife at court ; 
on that occasion you will honor us 
with your support and countenance.” 
“ Yes,” said Francis ; u is that all?” 
u All,” my lord. 
u Go — you have my word.” 

“ And you,” said Monsoreau, whis- 
pering in the duke’s ear, u you shall 
preserve the throne to which I have 
assisted you to climb ! Farewell, 
Sire.’’ 

This time he spoke so low that the 
word sounded harmoniously in the 
prince’s ear. 

“ It only remains for me,” thought 
Monsoreau, “ to ascertain how he ob- 
tained his information.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW THE KING HELD HIS COUNCIL 

On that same day, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, as was agreed between 
him and the Duke of Anjou, present 
ed his wife to the Queen-mother and 
to the Queen. 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


223 


Henry, as usual, moody and rest- 
less, after receiving notification from 
Monsieur de Morvilliers that a grand 
council would be held on the follow- 
ing day, had retired to bed. 

Henry had asked his chancellor no 
questions ; it was late, and the King 
was sleepy. An hour was appointed, 
suited to the Kind’s convenience. 

The worthy magistrate knew per- 
fectly well that, unlike Philip of Ma- 
cedon, the King, when fasting, was 
not apt to bestow serious attention on 
communications relating to the busi- 
ness of his kingdom or the welfare of 
his •ubjects. 

He also knew that Henry, whose 
sleep was invariably interrupted — the 
privilege of mortals appointed to 
watch over the sleep of others — would 
bethink himself, in the middle of the 
night, of the audienoe solicited, and 
would be the more eager to grant it 
under the spur of the curiosity his re- 
flections would be sure to awaken. 

Matters came to pass precisely as 
Monsieur de Morvilliers had expected. 

On the following day the council 
met. Its composition varied accord- 
ing to the changeful attachments of 
the monarch. It was now composed 
of Quelus, Maugiron, Epernon, and 
Schomberg, all four in favor for the 
past six months. 

Chicot, seated at the end of the ta- 
ble, was employed in shaping paper 
boats, to create, as he said, a fleet for 
His Most Christian Majesty, which 
would be a match for the navy of His 
Most Catholic Majesty. 

Monsieur de Morvilliers was an- 
nounced. 

The statesman was robed in full 
official costume, and had assumed his 
gravest air and manner. After mak- 
ing a profound bow, which was re- 
sponded to by Chicot, he approached 
the King. 

u I am,” said he, u before your 
Majesty’s council r” 

u Yes, before my best friends. 
Speak.” 

Sire, I have need of all the cool- 
ness I possess, for I am here to de- 


nounce a horrible conspiracy against 
your Majesty.” 

u A conspiracy,” exclaimed simul- 
taneously all present. 

Chicot cocked his ears, and sus- 
pended the construction of a stately 
galliot, with double bows, which he 
intended for the admiral’s vessel. 

u Yes, a conspiracy, sire,” rejoined 
Monsieur de Morvilliers, lowering his 
voice with an air of mystery, which 
presaged some very dreadful disclo- 
sure. 

u Oh, oh !” said the King. u Out 
with it — is the Spaniard at work ?” 
Just a*t this moment, the Duke of 
Anjou, who had been summoned, en- 
tered the council chamber. 

u You here, brother !” said Henry, 
after the doors had been closed, and 
the prince had made his obeisance. 
u Monsieur de Morvilliers announces 
the existence of a conspiracy against 
the state.” 

The duke cast round on the gen- 
tlemen present, one of those inquiring, 
and suspicious glances for which he 
was noted. 

u Can it be possible ?” said he. 
u I regret to have to say,” returned 
Monsieur de Morvilliers, u that there 
can be no doubt about the fact. The 
conspiracy is even a very dangerous 
one.” 

u Let us hear all about it,” broke 
in Chicot, launching his galliot, to 
which he had given the last touch, 

O 7 

into the crystal basin placed on the 
table. 

u Yes,” stammered the Duke of 
Anjou, u let us hear all about it, 
Monsieur le Chancelier.” 

u I am all attention,” said Henry. 
Morvilliers surveyed the assembly 
with a meaning and mysterious look, 
as much as to say — u If your Majesty 
were alone, I could speak more open- 
ly.” 

u Speak, Chancellor. I have none 
but friends here. Speak.” 

u Oh, sire, the name I am about to 
disclose is owned by a mighty prince, 
who has himself a host of powerful 
friends.” 


224 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


44 Near me ?” 

44 Everywhere.” 

44 Are they more powerful than I 
am myself!” cried Henry, pale with 
anger and anxiety. 

u Sire, a secret is a thing not to he 
proclaimed aloud — excuse me, I am a 
statesman. ” 

44 You are right.” 

44 A very sensible remark,” said 
Chicot, 44 and we all appreciate it, 
for we are all statesmen.” 

"** 44 Sir,” said the Duke d’ Anjou, 
44 we shall pray to be excused our 
presence, if your communication is 
intended for his Majesty’s private 
ear.” 

Monsieur de Morvilliers hesitated. 
Chicot was on the watch, for he feared 
lest the chancellor, simple as he seem- 
ed to be, should have discovered 
something. 

The King made a sign to the chan- 
cellor to advance, to the Duke of 
Anjou to remain where he was, to 
Chicot to observe silence, and to the 
four favorites to withdraw their at- 
tention. 

Monsieur de Morvilliers hastened 
to lean towards his Majesty’s ear, 
but scarcely had he gone through one 
half of the ceremonial demanded by 
etiquette on such occasions, when an 
extraordinary tumult was heard pro- 
ceeding from the palace-yard. 

The King suddenly drew himself 
lip. Messieurs de Qu'elus and 
D’Epernon rushed toward the win- 
dow, and my lord of Anjou grasped 
his sword as though all this disturb- 
ance portended some act of hostility 
against himself. 

Chicot, on tip -toe, commanded a 
view as well of the palace-yard as 
of the council-chamber. 

44 Monsieur de Guise !” cried he, 
the first, 44 Monsieur de Guise on a 
visit to the Louvre !” 

The King stirred. 

44 So it is,” cried the nobles. 

44 The Duke of Guise !” stammer- 
ed my lord of Anjou. 

44 This is strange — is it not ? Most 
strange that the Duke of Guise 


should be in Paris'” said the King, 
slowly, and reading in the bewildered 
countenance of Monsieur de Mor- 
villiers the name that the latter 
wanted to whisper in his ear. 

44 Does your information concern 
my cousin of Guise ?” inquired the 
King of the magistrate in a low voice. 

44 Yes, Sire; he presided at the 
sitting,” replied the magistrate in the 
same tone of voice. 

44 And the others — ” 

44 I know no others — ” 

Henry’s eye asked Chicot’s advice. 
44 Udsbuddikins !” exclaimed the 
Gascon, with an air of mock majesty, 
44 show in our cousin of Guise.” 
Stooping then toward Henry, he 
whispered : 

44 The name of this one, I imagine, 
is sufficiently familiar to you to make 
it needless for you to write it down.” 
The ushers threw the folding-doors 
wide open. 

44 One leaf only, gentlemen,” said 
Henry; 44 two are for the King.” 
The Duke of Guise was near enough 

C 

to hear the King’s order ; but it 
made no alteration in the smile with 
which he was approaching the royal 
presence. 


CHAPTER XIV . 

WHAT BROUGHT MY LORD OF GUISE 
TO THE LOUVRE. 

In the rear of Monsieur de Guise fol- 
lowed a prodigious number of officers, 
courtiers, and nobles, and behind this 
brilliant escort, came the people — an 
escort less brilliant, but more trust- 
worthy, and, above all, more formida- 
ble. ' 

There was this difference, however : 
the gentlemen entered the palace 
while the people remained in the 
yard. 

It was from the ranks of the people 
that the cries still proceeded, which 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAtf. 


225 


resounded as the duke was on the | 
point of entering the council-chamber. 

At the sight of this species of army 
which constituted the Parisian hero’s 
escort every time he appeared in the 
streets, the guards had seized their 
arms, and ranged behind their brave 
colonel, were watching the popular 
tumult with hostile intentions, and 
casting looks of indignation toward 
the ambitious demagogue. 

Guise, remarking the attitude of 
the soldiers commanded by Crillon, 
bowed gracefully to the colonel, who 
was standing four paces in advance 
of his men, but stern Crillon made 
no response. 

This species of revolt, although 
manifesfed by only one man, against a 
power generally acknowledged, struck 
the duke. A shade of gloom passed 
over his brow, but as he drew near 
the King, this passed away ; so that, 
as has been said, when he reached the 
council-chamber he was all smiles. 

u Ah, is that you, cousin ?” said 
the King. u What an uproar! Are 
not the trumpets sounding ? I thought 
I heard them.” 

u Sire,” replied the duke, u trumpets 
are sounded in Paris for the King 
only, and in the field for the general. 
I am too well acquainted with camps 
and courts to err in this respect. 
Here, trumpets would be too loud for 
a subject ; there, they would not be 
loud enough for a prince.” 

Henry bit his lips. 
u Par la Mordieu , cousin,” said he, 
after a moment’s pause, during which 
he eagerly surveyed the Lorraine 
prince, u you look bright ! Have 
you only arrived to-day from the 
siege of La Charite ?” 

u Only to-day, Sire,” replied the 
duke, coloring slight./. 

u We hold your visit as a great 
honor, cousin — as a great honor — as 
a great honor.” t 

Henry III. was accustomed to re- 
peat his words when he had thoughts 
he was desirous of concealing. He 
waited for the duke to unmask his 
battery. 


u Much honor !” repeated Chicot, 
with an intonation so exact, that a list- 
ener would have sworn the two words 
had been uttered by the King. 

u Sire,” said the duke, “your Ma- 
jesty is mocking me. How can my 
visit confer honor on the source of 
all honor ?” 

“ I mean, Monsieur de Guise,” 
replied Henry, u that every good 
Catholic is wont, on returning from 
the field, to pay his devotions to 
God in one of his temples. The 
King’s turn comes next. Serve God 
and honor the King, is, you know, 
cousin, partly a religious, and partly 
a political axiom.” 

The flush on the countenance 
of the Duke of Guise was this 
time more visible ; the King, who, 
as he spoke, was looking him full in 
the face, noticed the change, and in- 
stinctively glancing from the Duke 
of Guise to the Duke of Anjou, he 
saw with astonishment that his 
brother was as pale as his cousin was 
red. 

Emotions thus differently expressed, 
struck the King. Were the emotions 
different, or was it not rather the 
same emotion, differently rendered, 
agreeably to the constitutions of the 
individuals who experienced it ? He 
turned away with a species of affa- 
bility, under the semblance of which 
no one knew better than Henry the 
Third how to conceal his royal paws. 

“ At all events, duke,” said he, 
“ nothing can equal my satisfaction, 
in seeing that you have escaped all 
the evil chances of war. It is said 
that you are bold in braving danger, 
but danger knows you, cousin, and 
avoids you.” 

The duke bowed to the compli- 
ment. 

“ But, let me advise you, cousin— 
be not over ambitious in seeking 
danger ; for it would in truth be a 
sad thing, if sluggards such as we 
are, who pass their time in eating 
and sleeping, and whose sole con- 
quests are in the shape of new fash- 
ions, and new prayers — ” 


15 


226 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Yes, Sire,” put in the duke, 
seizing upon the last word. u We 
know that you are a pious and en- 
lightened prince, and that no pleasure 
can make you lose sight of the glory 
of God, and the interests of the 
church. For this reason, we have 
waited with so much confidence on 
your Majesty.” 

u See thy cousin’s confidence, 
Henry,” said Chicot, pointing to the 
crowd of gentlemen, who were de- 
tained by respect outside of the 
council-chamber. “ He places one 
third at the door of this very church, 
and the remaining two thirds at the 
palace-gate ! ’ 

u With confidence !” repeated 
Henry. “ Do you not always wait 
on me with confidence, cousin ?” 
u Sire, I know what I am saying. 
The confidence I speak of, relates to 
a proposition I have to make to your 
Majesty.” 

u Ah, so you have something to 
propose, cousin ? Then speak with 
confidence, as you say, with every con- 
fidence. What have you to propose 
u The execution of one of the most 
glorious ideas, that has inspired the 
Christian world since the days of the 
Crusades, now impossible to restore.” 
u Speak, duke.” 

“ I solicit your Majesty ; for your 
Majesty’s popularity is still dearer 
to me than my own ; I solicit your 
Majesty to give proof to the world, 
that your Majesty is as superior to us 
in zeal for the Catholic religion, as in 
everything else, and so deprive the 
disaffected of all pretext for renew- 
ing our civil wars.’’ 

u Oh, if you speak of war, cou- 
sin,” said Henry, u I have troops, 
and under your orders alone, you 
have in the camp, which you have 
left to bring me your valuable coun- 
sel, some twenty-five thousand men.” 
u Sire, when I spoke of war, I 
should have explained myself.*' 

u Explain yourself, cousin , you 
are a great captain, and, believe me, 
I shall take great pleasure in hearing 
you disconise on these matters.” 


“ Sire, I intend to say that in the 
days in which we live, Kings are 
called upon to maintain two wars ; a 
moral war, if I may so speak, as 
well as a political war ; a war against 
ideas, and a war against men.” 
u Mordieu ,” said Chicot, u this is 
profound and philosophical !” 
u Silence, fool !” said the King. 
u Men,” continued the duke, 
u men are visible, palpable, mortal -, 
we can overtake them, attack them 
and beat them, and when we have 
beaten them, we can try them and 
hang them, or do better, as the case 
may be.” 

u Yes,” said Chicot, u we can 
hang them without trying them, 
which is shorter and more royal.” 
u But ideas,” continued the duke, 
u are not to be reached thus, Sire ; 
they glide among us, and while they 
interpenetrate us, remain invisible ; 
above all, do they hide themselves 
from those who would destroy them, 
sheltered in the recess of the human 
heart ; they there cast their deepest 
roots, and the more we lop off the im- 
prudent branches that venture beyond 
the surface, the more imbedded and 
inextirpable do the roots beneath 
become. An idea, Sire, is a giant 
dwarf, and requires to be watched 
day and night, for the idea which 
yesterday was creeping at your feet, 
may by to-morrow dominate over 
your head. An idea, Sire, is like the 
spark that falls upon lime ; it takes 
good eyes to discover the fire in the 
open day ; and, for this purpose, 
Sire, millions of watchers are need- 
ed.” 

u The four Huguenots of France 
will be sent to the devil in a lump,” 
cried Chicot. u Udsbuddikins, I 
pity them !” 

“ And it is to make provision for 
this superintendence, that I would 
propose to your Majesty to appoint a 
head to the Holy Union.” 

u Have you done speaking, cousin ? ’ 
asked Henry. 

u Yes, and without reserve, as 
must be apparent to your Majesty.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


227 


Chicot heaved an awful sigh, while 
the Duke of Anjou, recovered from 
his first alarm, smiled his approval of 
the Lorraine prince’s proposition. 

u Well,” said the King to the sur- 
rounding nobles, u what is your 
opinion, gentlemen ?” 

Chicot silently took up his hat and 
gloves ; he next clutched a lion’s skin 
by the tail, dragged it over to a cor- 
ner, and stretched himself on it. 

u What are you doing, Chicot ?” 
asked the King. 

“ Sire,” said Chicot, u night is 
said to be a good counsellor. Why 
is this said ? Because, during the 
night we sleep. I am going to sleep, 
Sire, and to-morrow, after reflection, 
I shall give my cousin of Guise his 
answer.” 

With these words, he stretched 
himself out at his full length. 

The duke cast toward the Gascon 
a furious look, to which the latter 
made reply by winking one eye, and 
then snoring away with a noise re- 
sembling thunder. 

u Well, Sire?” asked the duke, 
£C what does your Majesty think ?” 
u I think, that you are right, cousin, 
as you always are. Convene your 
principal Leaguers ; come you at 
their head, and I will make choice of 
a suitable leader.” 

“ When shall this be, Sire ?” asked 
the duke. 

u To-morrow.” 

As he uttered this last word, he 
skilfully divided his smiles, giving 
part to the Duke of Guise, and part 
to the Duke of Anjou. 

The latter was preparing to with- 
draw with the court, but was detained 
by his brother’s saying to him : 
u Remain, brother, I would speak 
with you.” 

The Duke of Guise pressed his 
hand for an instant on his forehead, 
as though to compress a world of 
thought, and then departed with all 
his suite. 

A moment afterward, the crowd 
was heard saluting his exit from the 


Louvre, as they had saluted his en- 
trance. 

Chicot was still snoring, but we 
dare give no assurance that he slept. 


CHAPTER XV. 

CASTOR AND POLLUX. 

* 

The King had dismissed all the fa- 
vorites and remained alone with hia 
brother. 

The Duke of Anjou, who, during 
the whole of the preceding scene, had 
successfully preserved the attitude of 
indifference to what passed, except in 
the eyes of Chicot and of the Duke 
of Guise, had accepted without mis- 
trust, Henry’s invitation. He had no 
knowledge of the fact that on the 
suggestion, by sign, of Chicot, the 
King had looked his way, and de- 
tected his indiscreet finger wandering 
rather too near his lips. 

u Brother,” said Henry, after as- 
suring himself that none but his 
brother, Chicot and himself remained 
in the council-chamber, u do yon 
know that I am the happiest of prin- 
ces ?” 

u Sire,” said the duke, u your 
Majesty’s happiness, if indeed you 
are happy, is a reward bestowed by 
heaven on your Majesty’s deserv- 
ings.” 

Henry looked at his brother. 

u Yes, most happy!” resumed he. 
u For, when great ideas fail me, my- 
self, they cannot fail those who sur- 
round me. Now, this is a great idea 
that my cousin of Guise has submit- 
ted for my consideration.” 

The duke bowed assentingly. 

Chicot opened one eye as though 
he did not hear so well with both 
eyes closed, or as though he wanted 
to see the King’s face to understand 
his full meaning. 


228 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


“ To assemble under one common 
banner all my Catholic subjects, to 
convert the kingdom into the Church, 
to arm without show of appearance, 
all France from Calais to Languedoe, 
and from Brittany to Burgundy, so 
that I shall always have an army 
ready to march against the English, 
the Flemish and the Spaniard, with- 
out the Spaniard, the Flemish or the 
English ever taking umbrage at it, is 
indeed, you must acknowledge, a 
magnificent conception.” 

“ It is indeed, Sire,” said the 
duke, delighted to hear his brother 
expatiate approvingly on the idea of 
tiie dukejjhis confederate. 

“ Yes, and I confess that I am 
disposed with all my heart to reward 
largely the author of such a plan.” 

Chicot opened both his eyes, but 
lie as instantly closed them, for he 
detected on the countenance of the 
King, an imperceptible smile, visible 
to him alone who thoroughly knew 
bis master. That smile was sufficient 
for him. 

“ Yes,” continued the King, “I 
say again that such a plan deserves 
to be rewarded, and I am prepared to 
do much for its author. Is the Duke 
of Guise really entitled to claim the 
paternity of this glorious conception, 
or rather glorious work ; for the 
work is already commenced, brother, 
is it not ?” 

A sign from the duke informed the 
King that he was right in supposing 
that the plan was already in a state 
of forwardness. 

“ Better- and better,” resumed the 
King. “ I said that I was a most 
happy prince ; I should have said too 
happy, for not only are my lords in- 
spired with such ideas, but in their 
haste to be useful to their King and 
relation, they pause not in their exe- 
cution. But, I have already asked 
you, my dear Francis,” continued 
Henry, placing his hand on his 
brother’s shoulder, “ I have already 
asked you if it be really to my cousin 
of Guise that my gratitude is due for 
this glorious thought.” 


“No, Sire; Monsieur le Cardinal 
de Lorraine conceived it some twenty 
years since, and the. Saint-Bartholo- 
mew alone prevented its execution, 
or rather, for the time being, render- 
ed its execution needless.” 

“ How unfortunate that the Cardi- 
nal of Loraine should be dead !” said 
Henry. “ I would have had him 
made pope at the death of His Holi- 
ness, Gregory XIII ; but, it is no 
less true,” continued Henry, with 
that admirable simplicity of manner 
which constituted him the most art- 
ful dissembler in his kingdom; “it 
is no less true, that his nephew has 
inherited the idea, and made it fruc- 
tify. Unfortunately, I cannot make 
him pope, but I can make him — What 
can I make him, that he is not already, 
Francis ?” 

“ Sire,” said Francis, completely 
deluded by his brother’s language, 
“ you exaggerate your cousin’s merit. 
His idea is nothing more than a le- 
gacy, as I have already stated ; and 
he has been greatly assisted by one 
person in giving it shape and consis- 
tency.” 

“By his brother, the cardinal, you 
would say ?” 

“ Of course it has engaged his at- 
tention ; but he is not the person I 
mean.” 

“ Then you mean Mayerme ?” 

“ Oh, Sire, you do him too much 
honor.” 

“ True. How could any one 
suppose such a butcher capable 
of entertaining a political idea ? To 
whom, then, is my gratitude due for 
assisting the Duke of Guise in the 
elaboration and partial execution of 
this plan :” 

“ To myself, .Sire,” said the duke. 

“To you !” exclaimed Henry, with 
the air of a man thoroughly surpris- 
ed. 

The duke bowed. 

Chicot opened an eye. 

“ What,” said Henry, “ while I was 
witnessing the entire pack let loose 
upon me — the preachers inveighing 
against my vices — the poets a#d 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


229 


sonneteers against my follies ; the 
political doctors against my faults ; 
while my friends were laughing at my 
impotence ; while my position was 
becoming so perplexed, that I was 
visibly growing thinner ; and that not 
a day passed on which some of my 
hair did not turn grey. Such an idea 
presented itself to your mind, Fran- 
cis ? To you, whom I must confess — 
man is weak, and Kings are blind, — 
to you, whom I did not always regard 
as my friend ! Ah, Francis, how 
much in fault I have been !” 

And Henry, affected even to tears, 
put out his hand to his brother. 

Chicot opened both eyes. 

u The idea is indeed magnificent,” 
resumed the King. u U nable to raise 
taxes ; unable to raise troops, with- 
out popular clamor ; forbidden to di- 
vert myself, to sleep, to eat, or to 
lose, under pain of raising a laugh, 
here comes Monsieur de Saint-Luc’s 
plan, or rather yours, brother, which 
will give me at once an army, money, 
friends, and rest ! Now, in order 
that these benefits shall be lasting, 
one thing is necessary.” 

“ What is it ?” 

u My cousin spoke, just now, of 
giving a head to this great move- 
ment.” 

u Of course.” 

u This head, you understand well, 
Francis, cannot be any one of my 
favorites. None of them are equal, 
either in brains or resolution, to so 
exalted a position. Quelus is brave, 
but the foolish fellow employs all his 
time in love intrigues and adventures. 
Maugiron is brave, but vain, and 
only thinks of his dress. Schomberg 
is brave, but is not otherwise highly 
gifted ; a fact his best friends are 
obliged to admit. D’Epernon is 
brave, but is an arch hypocrite ; al- 
though I show him favor, I would not 
rely upon him for an instant. But 
then you know, Francis,” added 
Henry, while his manner grew still 
more confidential, u that one of the 
weightiest offices of a King is the ob- 
ligation under which he is, of con- 


stantly dissembling. Accordingly,” 
added Henry, u when I can open my 
heart, as I do at his moment, ah, I 
breathe a new life.” 

Chicot closed his eyes. 
u Well, I was saying, then, that if 
my cousin of Guise Has had this 
idea — an idea to the elevation of 
which you have so powerfully contri- 
buted — to him must be entrusted the 
office of directing its execution ” 
u What say you, Sire ?” cried 
Francis, panting with anxiety. 

u I say that the direction of such 
a movement should be entrusted to a 
great prince.” 

u Sire, be on your guard L,” 
u To a good captain ; to a skilful 
negotiator.” 

“ To a skilful negotiator espe- 
cially,” repeated the duke. 

u Well, Francis, will not Monsieur 
de Guise suit the post in every par- 
ticular ? What is your opinion r” 
u Sire,” said Francis, u Monsieur 
de Guise is already very powerful.” 
u Yes, he certainly is; but his 
power is my strength.” 

u The Duke of Guise holds the 
popular army ; the Cardinal of Lor- 
raine holds the Church ; while May- 
enne is an instrument in the hands 
of the two brothers. You will accu- 
mulate vast power in one house.” 
u True, Francis: I have already 
thought of this.” 

u Were the Guises French princes, 
it would not be so objectionable ; 
for it would then be their interest to 
exalt the house of France.” 

u Certainly ; but, on the contrary, 
they are foreign princes.” 

u They belong to a house that has 
always been in a state of rivalry with 
ours.” 

u Francis, you have just touched 
the sore place. Tudieu ! I had no 
idea you were so good a politician ! 
Why do I grow thin — why does my 
hair turn white ? On account of the 
elevation of the house of Lorraine to 
a rank and power equal to our own. 
Not a day passes but these three 
Guises — you have well remarked, that, 


230 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


between the three, they have every- 
thing in their own hands — not a day 
passes but that the duke, the cardi- 
nal or Mayenne carries off either by 
force or address — either openly and 
boldly, or privately and surrepti- 
tiously, some fragment of my royal 
power — some portion of my preroga- 
tive ; and poor, weak and insulted 
as I am, I dare not re- act against 
them. Ah ! Francis, if we had had 
this explanation sooner — if I could 
have read your heart as I read it now, 
finding there a support whereon to 
rest, I could have resisted better — 
but now, you see, it is too late.” 

“ Why so ?” 

Because there would be a strug- 
gle, and because really everything 
like struggle or contention fatigues 
me ; I shall therefore appoint him 
head of the League.” 

u And you will do very wrong, 
brother,” said Francis. 

u But whom, then, would you 
have me appoint, Francis ? Who 
would accept so perilous a post ? Yes, 
erilous. For, you cannot fail to 
ave remarked that it was the duke’s 
expectation that I should appoint him 
the head of this League.” 

“ What then?” 

u What then ? He will be„ the 
enemy of the man I appoint in his 
stead.” 

u Appoint a man so powerful that 
when backed by you, he will have 
nothing to fear from the might and 
power of the three Lorraines united.” 
u Heigh ! good brother of mine,” 
said Henry, in a tone of discourage- 
ment, u 1 know no one capable of 
fulfilling the conditions you men- 
tion.” 

u Look around vou, Sire. ” 
u Around me, 1 only see you and 
Chicot, who are truly my friends.” 
u Oh ! oh !” muttered Chicot, 
u does he intend to play me, some 
scurvy trick ?” 

And he closed his two eyes. 
u Well !” said the duke, u do you 
not understand me, brother?” 

Henry looked at the Duke of Anjou, 


as though a veil had fallen from his 

eyes. 

“ What !” cried he. 

Francis nodded. 

u No !” said Henry ; u you would 
never consent. The task would be 
too severe. It is certainly not you 
who would undertake to drill these 
citizens ; it is not you, who would 
undertake the revision of their preach- 
ers’ sermons ; it is not you, who, in 
the event of battle, would perambu- 
late, in the guise of a butcher, the 
streets of Paris converted into slaugh- 
ter-houses. To do all this a man 
must be three-fold, like Monsieur de 
Guise, and have a right arm called 
Charles, and a left arm called Louis. 
The duke did a large business on the 
day of Saint Barthelemy — what think 
you, Francis ?” 

u Too large, Sire.” 

u Yes, perhaps. But you do not 
answer all my question, Francis. 
What ! You would adopt the calling 
I have described? You would in- 
spect the dinted cuirasses of these 
boobies, and the saucepans they plant 
on their heads ^s substitutes for 
helmets ? What, you would put on 
the airs of popularity seeking — you, 
the first lord of our court ? ‘Sdeath, 
brother, how one changes with his 
years !” 

u I would not, perhaps, do all this 
for myself, Sire, but 1 could do it for 
you.” 

u Affectionate brother — excellent 
brother !” ejaculated Henry, as he 
wiped away with his finger a tear 
which never existed. 

u And so/’ said Francis, u it would 
not -be very displeasing to you, were 
I to take upon myself this office which 
you purposed bestowing on Monsieur 
de Guise ?” 

u Displeasing to me ?” cried Henry. 
u Corne du diable , no, it would not be 
displeasing to me — on the contrary, 
it would delight me. And so, you, 
too, have been thinking of the League ? 
So much the better, Mordieu ! — so 
much the better ! And so, you have 
had a small share in this grand plan 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AIT. 


231 


— what do I say — a small share ? A | 
large share, in fact, from what I have 
been told by yourself. Truly I am 
surrounded by men of wonderful ge- 
nius, and I am the greatest ass in my 
kingdom.'’ 

u Oh ! Your Majesty is mocking.” 
u 1 ! Heaven forbid ; the matter is 
too serious. I think what I say, 
Francis. You extricate me from a 
position of great embarrassment — all 
the greater do you see, Francis, for 
the reason that, for some time past, 
I have not been well. My health has 
been rapidly failing. Miron often 
explains the cause to me. But, come, 
let us return to the principal matter 
— besides, what need have I of my own 
wits, when I can take counsel from 
you. We were saying, then, that I 
would appoint you head of the 
League — ahem !” 

The heart of Francis leaped for 

j°y- 

“ Oh!” said he, u if your Majesty 
will hold me worthy of such a trust !” 
u Trust ! Francis, trust ! As long 
as it is not Monsieur de Guise who is 
to be the head, whom or what need I 
mistrust ? The League itself ? Have 
I, peradventure, any danger to appre- 
hend from the League ? Speak, good 
Francis ; tell me all.” 

. u Oh, Sire !” said the duke. 
u How silly I am !” resumed Hen- 
ry. u In that case, my brother would 
not be at the head of it, or, rather, 
still better, as long as my brother 
was at the head of it, there would be 
no danger. Ahem ! well reasoned, I 
think. We did not pay our peda- 
gogue and receive nothing in ex- 
change. No, faith, I have no mis- 
trust. Besides, I know a sufficient 
number of swords in France to be 
sure of drawing in good company if 
the League .should ever prove trouble- 
some to me.” 

u Of course, Sire,” responded the 
duke, with an ingenuousness of man- 
nei almost as artfully affected as his 
brother’s ; <c the King is always 
King.” 

j 

Chicot opened an eye. 


u Pardieu /” said Henry. u But, 
unfortunately, an idea has just struck 
me likewise. It is surprising how 
abundantly ideas are sprouting to- 
day! There be such days.” 

u What idea, brother ?” asked the 
duke, uneasily, for he could not be- 
lieve in the possibility of such happi- 
ness being reached without hin- 
drance. 

u Why, our cousin of Guise, the 
author of this plan, or, rather, who 
believes himself to be its author — our 
cousin of Guise has probably gotten 
it into his head that he is to be ap- 
pointed chief. He will claim com- 
mand.” 

u Command, Sire?” 
u Of course ; beyond all doubt, he 
has only nurtured the thing in the 
hope of deriving advantage from it. 
True, you say you nurtured it with 
him ; but take care, Francis, he is 
not a man to be a victim of Sic vos 
non vobis. You recollect your Virgil, 
nidificcttis avesP 
“ Oh, Sire!” 

u Francis, I would wager that he 
has thought about it. He knows me 
to be so neglectful.” 

u Yes, but as soon as you shall 
have signified your wishes to him, he 
will .give way.” 

u Or will appear to give way. I 
have already said — take care, Fran- 
cis. Our cousin of Guise has a long 
arm. I would say more ; I would say 
that he has long arms, and that there 
exists not a man in the kingdom, not 
even the King, who, like him, with 
one hand can reach Don John of Aus- 
tria and Spain, and, with the other, 
Elizabeth and England. Bourbon’s 
sword was not so long as my cousin of 
Guise’s arm, and yet he did much 
harm to Francis the First, our grand- 
father.” 

u But,” said Francis, “if your 
Majesty esteems him to be so dan- 
gerous, all the stronger is the reason 
for conferring on me the command of 
the League. Thus will he be placed 
between your power and mine, and, 
on the very first symptoms of treason, 


PI AINA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


m 


we can, between us, easily bring him 
to trial.” 

Chicot opened the other eye. 
u Bring him to trial, Francis ! 
bring him to trial ! It was all very 
well for Louis XI., who was powerful 
and rich, to arraign for trial and erect 
scaffolds ; but I have not money 
enough to purchase the black velvet 
which such occasions would require.” 
As he uttered these words, Henry, 
despite the control he exercised over 
himself, became sensibly animated, 
while his eyes sparkled in such a man- 
ner that the duke turned aside from 
them. 

A moment’s pause ensued between 
the two princes. 

The King was the first to resume 
the conversation. 

u We must, therefore, be cautious, 
my dear Francis; no civil wars, no 
quarrels between my subjects ! I am 
the son of Henry, the man of blows, 
and of Catherine, the woman of cun- 
ning. I possess something of my 
mother’s art. I shall re-suinmon the 
Duke of Guise, and, by dint of fair 
words and promises, we will settle 
your affair in an amicable manner.” 
u Sire, you will grant me the com- 
mand, will you not ?” 
u That I will.” 
u You want me to have it ?” 
u Prodigiously.” 

u In a word, you wish me to occupy 
the post ?” 

u It is my greatest wish ; but, at 
the same time, I would not seriously 
offend my cousin of Guise.’’ 

u Well, make yourself easy,” said 
the Duke of Anjou, u if such be the 
only obstacle you see to my appoint- 
ment, I will undertake to arrange 
matters with the duke.” 

“ When ?” 
u Instantly.” 

u You will seek him out yourself? 
You will visit him in person? Oh, 
brother, think well on it ; you will be 
doing him great honor.” 

u No, Sire ; I shall not visit him.” 
“How will you manage ?” 

4 He is waiting for me ” 


“ Where ?” 

u At my own quarters.” 

u At your own quarters ? I heard 
the cries which greeted him when he 
left the Louvre.” 

“ Yes, but after going out by the 
grand gate, he returned by the pos- 
tern. The King claimed the Duke of 

O 

Guise’s first visit, but I claim his 
second. ” 

u Ah, brother, I feel obliged to you 
for thus maintaining our prerogatives, 
which I have sometimes the weakness 
to surrender. Go, Francis, and 
make your arrangements with our 
cousin of Guise.” 

The duke took his brother’s hand 
and stooped down to kiss it. 

“ What are you doing, Francis? 
In my arms, on my heart,” cried 
Henry, u is your proper place.” 

And the two brothers embraced 
each other several times in succession 
After a last embrace, the Duke of 
Anjou, at length set free, left the 
chamber, passed rapidly through the 
corridors, and hastened to his private 
quarters. 

His heart must have been like that 
of the first navigator’s, bound with 
oak and steel, not to have burst. 

As soon as his brother was out of 
sight, the King gnashed his teeth 
with anger, and rushing impetuously 
through the passage which commu- 
nicated with the room that had for- 
merly been Margaret of Navarre’s, 
but was now the Duke of Anjou’s, 
he took up a position in a small box, 
so constructed as to re-echo the 
sounds made in the adjoining apart- 
ment, and from which he could hear 
the conversation that was going to 
take place between the Duke of An- 
jou and Guise, as plainly as Dionysius 
could hear from his hiding-place the 
conversations of his prisoners. 


THE LADY OF V0*M**SA1L 




CHAPTER XVI. 

HOW IT CAN BE PROVED THAT THE 
BEST WAY TO HEAR IS TO LISTEN. 

The Duke of Anjou had rejoined his 
visitor, the Duke of Guise, in that 
same room of the Queen of Navarre, 
in which the Bearnais and De Mouy 
had formerly concocted in smothered 
whispers their plans of escape. In 
fact, cautious and prudent, Henry of 
Navarre knew that there were few 
rooms in the Louvre that were not so 
constructed as to convey the words 
of speakers, even when uttered in a 
very low tone, to him who was in- 
terested in hearing them. Neither 
was the Duke of Aniou ignorant of 
this important fact ; but, completely 
misled by his brother’s manner, he 
either forgot it or attached no im- 
portance to it. 

Henry III., as we have just stated, 
entered his observatory at the precise 
moment his brother was entering his 
room, so that not a syllable uttered 
by the interlocutors escaped the 
King’s ear. 

u Well, my lord !” eagerly in- 
quired the Duke of Anjou. 

u Well, duke, the sitting is raised.” 
u You are very pale, my lord.” 
u Perceptibly ?’’ said the prince, 
anxiously. 

u To me, yes, my lord.” 
u The King saw nothing ?” 
a Nothing, I believe. His Majes- 
ty detained your Highness.” 

“ You saw him yourself, duke ?” 
u Certainly ; but it was merely to 
communicate my plan to him.” 
u Yes, sir.” 

There ensued a moment of embar- 
rassing silence, which Henry III., 
placed as he was in such a position as 
not to lose a word that was spoken, 
was at a loss to account for. 

u And what says his Majesty?” 
resumed the Duke of Guise. • 

“ The King approves of the idea ; 
but, in proportion as your plan is 
colossal, in the same proportion does 
it appear dangerous to his Majesty to 

; 


give the control of it to a man like 
you.” 

u Then we are well nigh aground.” 
u I fear so, duke, and that an ex- 
tinguisher is put on the League.” 
u The deuce !” exclaimed the duke ; 
u this would be to die before being 
born — to end before beginning.” 
u One has as much wit as the 
other,” whispered a caustic voice in 
Henry’s ear, as he leaned forward in 
a listening attitude. 

Henry turned hastily round, and 
saw Chicot’s big body bent forward 
and listening at his hole as the King 
was listening at his. 

u You have followed me, rascal !” 
cried the King. 

u Hold your tongue,” said Chicot, 
making a sign with his hand, u hold 
your tongue, my son ; you prevent 
me from hearing.” 

The King shrugged his shoulders, 
but as Chicot, after all, was the only 
living being he entirely trusted, he 
resumed his listening posture without 
other remark. 

The Duke of Guise was speaking. 
u My lord,” said he, “ it seems to 
me that the King might have spoken 
out and announced to me his refusal 
himself. His reception was in other 
respects ungracious enough. Does 
he want, per adventure, to set me 
aside ?” 

u I believe he does,” said the 
prince, hesitatingly. 

u Then he would ruin the under- 
taking.” 

u Assuredly,” resumed the prince, 
u and as you opened the subject, I 
felt bound to second you to the best 
of my ability, and I have done so.” 
u In what way, my lord ?” 
u Thus. The King has all the 
same as placed it in my power to kill 
the League, or give it life and per- 
manence.” 

u How do you mean ?” said the 
Lorraine duke, his eye sparkling in 
spite of himself. 

“ Listen : it will be, you under- 
stand, for the leaders to decide ulti 
mately in the premises. If, instead 


234 


DIANA OF MERIDOR, OR, 


of expelling you and dissolving the 
League, he were to appoint a head 
favorable to the cause — if, instead of 
appointing the Duke of Guise to the 
post, he were to appoint the Duke of 
Anjou ?” 

u Ah !’’ ejaculated the Duke of 
Guise, who could neither restrain the 
exclamation, nor check the rush of 
blood to his face. 

u Good !” said Chicot, “ the two 
bull-dogs are going to fight for the 
bone.” 

But to the great surprise of both the 
King and Chicot, and especially of the 
former, who was not so well-informed 
as his companion, the Duke of Guise 
suddenly paused in the expression, 
whether of astonishment or irritation, 
and resumed in a quiet and almost 
cheerful voice, 

u You have managed well, my 
lord,” said he, u if you have brought 
about what you say.” 

“ I have done so,” rejoined the 
prince. 

u It was quickly dune.” 

“ Yes, but it must be acknowledg- 
ed that I was assisted by circumstances. 
But in the meanwhile, my dear duke, 
nothing is stipulated, and I would not 
conclude before seeing you.” 
u Why, my lord r” 
u Because, I knew not to what such 
an arrangement might lead.” 

u I know pretty well,” said Chicot. 
“ A little plot,” said Henry smil- 
ing. 

u And of which Monsieur de Mor- 
villiers, who is, according to you, 
always so well-informed, said not a 
word. But let us listen ; the conver- 
sation is becoming very interesting.” 
u Well, I can tell you, my lord, 
not exactly to what such an arrange- 
ment might lead, for that God alone 
knows, but how it might serve us,” 
rejoined the Duke of Guise. “ The 
League is a second army. Now, as I 
hold the first army, and as my brother, 
the cardinal, holds the Church, no- 
thing can withstand us so long as we 
remain united.” 

a Without counting,” said the 


Duke of Anjou, “ that I am heir pit> 

sumptive to the throne.” 

u Ah, ah !” ejaculated Henry. 

“ He is right,” said Chicot, “ and 
it is your own fault, my son.” 

u My lord, heir presumptive to the 
throne though you be, calculate what 
chances are against you.” 

u Duke, do you imagine I have not 
done so already, and that I have not 
weighed them over a hundred times ? ” 
“ First, there is the King of Na- 
varre.” 

u Oh ! he does not alarm me. He 
is wholly taken up with his passion 
for La Fosseuse. 5 ’ 

u He, my lord ! He will dispute 
with you your very purse-strings. 
He is needy — he is lean — he is hun- 
gry — he is like a mouser, which, 
merely scenting its prey, will pass 
whole nights at the sky-light, while 
your well-fed, well-furred grimalkin, 
will scarcely stretch out its lazy paw. 
The King of Navarre is watching 
you ; his eye is open, and he loses 
sight neither of you nor of your 
brother. He hungers after your 
throne. Wait until some accident 
happens to him who now occupies 
it, and you will see if the starv- 
ed cat possesses elastic muscles, 
and if with one bound he will not 
jump from Pau to Paris to give you 
a touch of his paw. You will see, my 
lord.’’ 

u Some accident to him who oc- 
cupies the throne !” repeated Fran- 
cis, slowly, and gazing inquiringly at 
the Duke of Guise. 

u Heigh, heigh!” .said Chicot, 
u listen, Henry : this Guise is saying, 
or rather is going to say something 
very instructive, from which you may 
derive advantage.” 

“ Yes, my lord, an accident,” re- 
peated the Duke of Guise. “You 
know as well as I do, and perhaps 
better, that accidents are not rare in 
your family. Such a prince in good 
| health suddenly begins to fall away — 
another, relying on long years of life, 
is within a few hours of the tomb ” 

“ Do you hear, Henry ; d$ roll 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


235 


hear ?” said Chicot, taking the King’s | 
hand, which was trembling and cov- 
ered with a cold perspiration. 

u Yes, it is true,” said the prince 
in smothered tones, so that in order 
to hear him, the King and Chicot had 
to redouble their attention; “it is 
too true that the princes of my house 
are born under fatal influences ; but 
my brother, Henry III., is, thanks be 
to God, sound and healthy. In for- 
mer years he withstood successfully 
the fatigues of war ; and so, there is 
good reason for believing that now, 
when life is with him nothing but a 
succession of recreations, he will last 
well and long.” 

“ Yes, my lord, but recollect one 
thing,” resumed the duke — u that 
the recreations of the Kings of France 
are not always without danger. By 
way of example, how did your father 
Henry II., who escaped all the perils 
of war — how did he die ? In one of 
the recreations of which you speak. 
The iron of Montgomery’s lance 
was, to be sure, a courteous weapon, 
for a cuirass though, and not for an 
eye — and so King Henry died, an ac- 
cident you will grant. You may re- 
mind me that fifteen years afterward, 
Monsieur de Montgomery was 
arrested by the order of the Queen- 
mother, and notwithstanding the plea 
of prescription, beheaded. True, but 
the King was not the less dead. As 
for your brother Francis, see how his 
weak intellect damaged him in the 
esteem of nations : he, too, perished 
unfortunately. You will admit, my 
lord, that it was difficult to believe 
that that pain in the ear was an acci- 
dent. And yet it was an accident, 
and a very serious one. Nevertheless, 
I remember having heard in camp, 
court, and city, that a deadly disease 
had been poured into the ear of King 
Francis II., by a certain person whom 
it would be very wrong to call acci- 
dent, inasmuch as he bore a well 
known name.” 

“ Duke !” murmured Francis, red- 
dening. 

u Yes, my lord, yes,” continued 


the duke, u the name of King has 
for some years past been unlucky 
Evil chances befal them all. See 
Antoine de Bourbon ! It was cer- 
tainly his name of King, which caused 
him to receive a shot in the shoulder 
from an arquebus ; an accident which 
would never have been fatal to any 
one save a King, but from the con 
sequences of which he died. The 
eye, the ear and the shoulder, have 
caused much mourning in France, 
and I now remember, that your Mon- 
sieur de Bussy composed some very 
pretty lines referring to these events.” 
u What lines ?” asked Henry. 
u Bah !” said Chicot. u Do you 
not know them ?” 

“ No.” 

“ One would say that you were 
really a King, since such things are 
concealed from you. Here; they are : 

“ By ear, by shoulder, and by eye, 

Three Kings of France in coffin lie 
By eye, by shoulder, and by ear. 

Three Kings of France did disappear. 

By eye, by ear, and shoulder blade, 

u But hush ! I opine that your 
brother is going to say something in- 
teresting.” 

u But the last line ?” 
u Some other time ; when Monsieur 
de Bussy shall have completed hia 
stanza.” 

u What do you mean ?” 
u I mean that two persons are miss- 
ing from this family picture ; but 
listen to Monsieur de Guise, he will 
not forget them.” 

The conversation was resumed. 
u Without counting, my lord,” re- 
plied the Duke de Guise, “ that the 
history of our relatives and allies is 
not completed in the verse of Bussy.” 
u Did I not tell you so ?” said 
Chicot, pushing Henry with his el- 
bow. 

u You forget Jeanne d’Albret, 
mother of the Bearnais, who died 
after smelling a pair of scented 
gloves, which she had purchased from 
the Florentine, at Saint-Michael’s 
bridge; a very unexpected accident, 


236 


DIANA OP MERIDOK ; OR, 


and which occasioned the more sur- 
prise, inasmuch as there happened 
to exist just then more than one 
person who derived advantage from 
her death. Can you deny, my lord, 
that it surprised you ?” 

The prince’s only answer was a mo- 
tion of the eye-brow, which deepened 
the dark expression of his counte- 
nance. 

u And the accident which befell 
King Charles the Ninth, which your 
Highness forgets,” added the duke, 
u although it is one worth remember- 

w 

ing. It was neither by the eye, nor 
by the ear, nor by the shoulder, that 
the accident reached him ; it was by 
the mouth.” 

u What ?” cried Francis. 

And Henry could hear the sound of 
hie brother’s feet, as he recoiled with 
terror. 

u Yes, my lord, by the mouth,” 
repeated the Duke of Guise. u Books 
on the chase are dangerous, when 
the leaves are sticking together, and 
can only be turned by having the 
fingers constantly moistened. The 
effluvia of old books is apt to cor- 
rupt the saliva, and when the saliva 
is once corrupted, a man will not go 
far, were he even a King.” 

u Duke, duke !” repeated the 
prince twice. u You are inventing 
these crimes.” 

u Crimes !” repeated Guise. 
u Eh, who speaks of crimes ? My 
lord, I am relating accidents ; mere 
accidents, believe me. They have 
never been believed by sensible peo- 
ple to be anything else but accidents. 
And then, there was that accident 
which befell King Charles the Ninth, 
at the chase.” 

“ Attention, Henry !” said Chicot. 
u We shall have something new for 
you, who are fond of the chase. List- 
en, Henry, it must be curious.” 
u I know what it is,” said Henry. 
u Yes, but I do not. I was not 
then at co urt Let me listen, my 


eon. 




“ You know, my lord, to what 
chase I allude,” continued the duke, 


u when with the generous intention 
of killing the boar, which had turned 
on your brother, you fired with such 
precision, that you missed the animal 
at which you aimed, and hit one, at 
which you did not aim. That shot 
fired from your arquebus, my lord, 
proves how much we have need to be 
on our guard against accidents. At 
court, my lord, your skill was well 
known. Your Highness never 
misses your aim ; and you must 
have been greatly astonished at 
having missed on that occasion, es- 
pecially as malice suggested that the 
King’s fall from his wounded horse 
might have been the occasion of his 
death, if the King of Navarre had 
not fortunately destroyed the boar, 
which you had missed.” 

u But,” said the prince, trying to 
recover the assurance upon which the 
Duke of Guise had opened the batte- 
ry of his caustic irony, u what inter- 
est had I in my brother’s death, since 
the successor of Charles the Ninth, 
would necessarily have been Henry 
the Third ?” 

u A moment, my lord, let us be 
more explicit. There was already 
one throne vacant, that of Poland. 
The death of Charles the Ninth 
would have rendered another vacant, 
that of France. Of course, your 
brother would have chosen the throne 
of France ; but, as a second choice, 
the throne of Poland would have 
been very desirable ; there are many 
people, I am assured, who have 
coveted the little throne of Navarre. 
Beside, the death of Charles the Ninth 
would have brought you one step 
nearer, and then you would have re- 
mained the principal party, to de- 
rive advantage from the chapter of 
accidents. King Henry III. re- 
turned from Warsaw in ten days ; 
why might not you have done — I am 
always supposing in the event of ac- 
cident — what was done by King Hen- 
ry III. ?” 

| Henry III. looked at Chicot, who 
returned the King’s look, not with 
the roguish and sarcastic expression 


THE LADY OF MOIS SORE AU. 


237 


usually conveyed by the fool’s coun- 
tenance, but with a degree of tender 
and anxious interest ; it animated, 
though but for a nnment, his fea- 
tures, bronzed by the sun of the 
South. 

“ What do you conclude, duke ?” 
asked the prince, endeavoring to 
‘bring to an end a conversation, in the 
course of which the Duke of Guise 
had manifested all his spiteful dissa- 
tisfaction. 

u My lord, I conclude that every 
King has his accident, as we were say- 
ing just now. Now, you are the ine- 
vitable accident of King Henry III., 
especially if you are at the head of 
the League, inasmuch as to be the 
head of the League is almost to be 
King, without taking further into the 
calculation, that by making yourself 
the head of the League, you will have 
it in your power to extinguish the ac- 
cident of your Highness’s reign, now 
near at hand ; I mean the Bearnais.” 
u Near at hand ! Do you hear ?” 
cried Henry III. 

“ Udsbuddikins ; I believe I do 
hear,” said Chicot. 

And so” — added the Duke of 
Guise. 

u And so,” repeated the prince, 
u I ought to accept. Such is your ad- 
vice ; is it not ?” 

u Accept by all means,” said the 
Duke. u I would, if necessary, im- 
plore you to accept.” 

u And you, this evening” — 
u Oh, make yourself easy ; my 
people have been abroad all day, and 
this evening Paris will present a cu- 
rious scene.’* 

u What do they allude to ? What 
is to be done in Paris to-night ?” 
asked the King. 

u What ; can you not guess ?” 

“ No.” 

u Oh, what a simpleton! My son, 
to-night the League is to be signed — 


publicly, you understand — for, for a 
long time past, people have been 
signing and resigning it by turns, in 
private. Your sanction was want- 
ing : you gave it this morning, and 
there will be lots of signing to-night. 
Udsbuddikins, Henry, you see that 
your accidents — for you have two ac- 
cidents — lose no time!” 

u Very well,’* said the prince ; 
u we shall meet this evening, duke.” 
“ Yes, we shall meet this evening,” 
said Henry. 

“ What !” exclaimed Chicot, 
“Will you expose yourself in the 
streets of your capital this evening, 
Henry ?” 

u Such is my purpose.” 
u You will do wrong, Henry.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Beware of accidents!” 

“ I shall be well protected. Come 
with me yourself.” 

u Come, my son ; do you take me 
for a Huguenot ? I am a good Ca- 
tholic, and must sign the League on 
my own account ; and that rather 
ten times than once, and rather a 
hundred times than ten times.” 

The voices of the Dukes of Anjou 
and Guise had ceased to be audible. 

u One word more,” said the King, 
stopping Chicot, who was hurrying 
away. “ What think you of all this ?” 
u I think that each of those Kings, 
your predecessors, was ignorant of his 
accident. Henry II. did not foresee 
the eve: Francis II. did not foresee 
the ear : Antoine de Bourbon did not 
foresee the shoulder : Jeanne d’Albret 
did not foresee the nose : and Charles 
IX. did not foresee the mouth. You 
have, therefore, an advantage, which 
is peculiarly your own, Master 
Henry, for, udsbuddikins, you know 
your brother, do you not?” 

u Yes,” said Henry, “ and, par la 
Mordieu , it shall be seen that I know 
him *” 













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• 'IV' 


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DIANA OF MERIDOR; 


OR, THE 


LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


BY 


ALEXANDER DUMAS. 

AUTHOR OF “THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO,” “THE MOHICANS OF PARIS,” “THE THREE 
GUARDSMEN,” “TWENTY YEARS AFTER,” “FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN,” “THE ADVEN- 
TURES OF A MARQUIS,” “ THE IRON MASK,” “ COUNTESS OF CHARNY,” “ BRAGELONNE,” 
“QUEEN’S NECKLACE,” “MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN,” “SIX YEARS LATER,” 
“LOUISE LA VALLIERE,” “THE CONSCRIPT,” “THE IRON HAND,” “EDMOND 
DANTES,” “THOUSAND PHANTOMS,” “GEORGE, OR THE PLANTER OF 
THE ISLE OF FRANCE,” “FERNANDE,” “ FELINA DE CHAMBURE,” 
“GENEVIEVE,” “SKETCHES IN FRANCE,” “ISABEL OF 
BAVARIA,” “THE CORSICAN BROTHERS,” “THE 
HORRORS OF PARIS,” ETC., ETC., ETC. 


VOLUME TWO. 


TWO VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE. 


T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS, 


306 CHESTNUT STREET. 








DIANA OF ME RID OR; 


OR 


THE LADY OF MONSOltEAU. 


i 

PART IV. 


CHAPTER I . 

THE SOIREE OF THE LEAGUE. 

Paris, as it is known to the present 
generation, celebrates its fetes with 
vast crowds and tumult ; hut the 
crowds are always the same, and the 
tumult is always the same. In for- 
mer days, Paris did something more. 
The narrow streets, lined with houses 
with projecting beams and gables, 
each house possessing its peculiar 
character, and each street crowded 
with human beings, all hurrying to- 
ward the same point, staring at each 
other by the way, admiring each 
other, or hooting at each other, accord- 
ing as the strangeness or beauty of 
costume would suggest, formed a cu- 
rious and interesting spectacle. This 
was not to be wondered at ; for, for- 
merly, dress, arms, language, gestures, 
voice, and gait, were all curiosities 
by themselves ; and when collected 
at the same spot, composed a di- 
versified picture, impossible to witness 
in the present day. 

Just such was Paris at eight o’clock 
in the evening of the day, when Mon- 
sieur de Guise, after his audience with 
the King, had given the word to the 
good citizens of the capital of the 
kingdom, that the League was to be 
signed. 

A crowd of citizens, in their holi- 
day dresses, or wearing their best 


battle armor, were bending their way 
to the church ; the bearing of the 
men was at once merry and menacing ; 
the latter especially, when they passed 
before a post of Suisses, or of light- 
horse. This bearing, with the cries, 
hootings and bravadoes which bore it 
company, would have alarmed Mon- 
sieur de Morvilliers, if the worthy 
magistrate had not known the good 
Parisians to be incapable of inflict- 
ing injury, unless, indeed, prompted 
to it by some wicked friend, or provok- 
ed by some rash enemy. 

The presence of a number of wo- 
men added to the tumult and to the 
variety: scorning to remain at home 
on so great an occasion, they were 
following their husbands, most of 
them accompanied by a string of 
children : it was a curious thing to 
see the monkeys dragging after the 
dreadful muskets, the gigantic sabres, 
and terrible halberts, of their warlike 
fathers. It may be remarked that in 
all ages the gamin of Paris has been 
addicted to the trailing of arms be- 
fore being able to use thei£, and even 
while still in infancy, to admire the 
performances of his elders by a few 
years in the same line. 

From time to time, in some group 
more animated than the rest, rusty 
swords would be drawn from their 
scabbards ; and this hostile demon- 
stration would occur in most cases in 
passing some dwelling suspected of 


242 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


heresy. Then, the children would 
scream — Saint-Barthelemy ! while 
their fathers shouted — Faggots — fag- 
gots ! 

These cries would probably draw to 
the casement the pale visage of some 
old serving woman, or grave minister, 
and next might be heard at the door 
the noise of bolts. Then, the citi- 
zen, proud and happy, like the hare in 
Lafontaine, in having frightened some- 
thing more timid than himself, would 
continue his triumphal march, and 
bear to some other quarter his noisy 
and harmless threats. 

But it was especially in the Rue 
de l’Arbre-Sec that the muster was 
most considerable. The street was 
literally choked, and the eager and 
tumultuous crowd was pressing round 
a brilliant light hung under a sign- 
board, which many of our readers will 
recognize, when they are informed 
that it represented a pullet au natu- 
rel , roasting on an azure ground, with 
the motto — A la belle Etoilc ! 

On the threshold, a man, notice- 
able for his square cotton cap— the 
fashion of the day — which covered a 
perfectly bald head, was haranguing 
with all his might. In one hand, 
this personage brandished a naked 
sword, while with the other he flut- 
tered a register, the leaves of which 
were already half filled with signa- 
tures. 

u Come on, come on, honest Catho- 
lics,” he was crying, u walk in, and 
you will find good wine and a hearty 
reception. Walk in, now is your 
time, to-night the good shall be sepa- 
rated from the wicked — to-morrow we 
shall know the chaff from the grain — 
walk in, gentlemen, you who can write, 
walk in atyf write ; you who can not 
write, walk in and give your names, 
•either to me, Master la Huriere, or to 
my assistant, Monsieur Croquentin !” 

This Monsieur Croquentin was a 
young varlet from Perigord ; dressed 
in a white robe, with a cord round 
his waist, fastening on the one side a 
knife, and on the other an ink-horn. 
He was busily employed in taking 


down the names of the neighbors, with 
that of his respected master, La Hu- 
riere, at the head of the list. 

u Gentlemen, it is for the mass,” 
shouted the host of the Belle Etoile , 
u gentlemen, it is for our holy reli- 
gion ! Hurrah for our holy religion, 
gentlemen — hurrah for the mass !” 

He was positively choking with 
emotion and fatigue, for his enthusi- 
asm had been kept unremittingly on 
the go from four o’clock in the after- 
noon. 

The result was, that numbers of 
excited zealots signed their names in 
Master la Huriere’s register, or had 
them signed for them by Monsieur 
Croquentin. 

This success was the more flattering 
to La Huriere, forasmuch that he 
had a terrible rival in the neighbor- 
ing church of Saint-Germain l’Aux- 
errois ; but, fortunately, in those days 
the faithful were numerous, and the 
two establishments helped, instead of 
hurting, each other. Such as were not 
able to make their way into the 
church to declare their names at the 
principal altar, tried to reach La 
Huriere’s table, and such as were not 
able to reach La Huriere’s table, 
hoped to succeed better at Saint-Ger- 
main l’Auxerrois. 

When the registers kept by La Hu- 
riere and Croquentin were both full, 
the master of the Belle Etoile im- 
mediately produced two fresh ones, 
and the earnest solicitations of the 
host were renewed with increased ar- 
dor. In fact, nothing could exceed 
La Huriere’s satisfaction in having 
accomplished so much : he saw his 
way to Monsieur de Guise’s good 
opinion, of which he had long been 
ambitious. 

While signatures for the fresh re- 
gisters were crowding in with a zeal 
that knew no abatement, the supply 
being kept up not only from the ad- 
joining streets, but from distant quar- 
ters of the citv, a man of tall stature 
was seen, with the assistance of shoves 
and kicks, to make his way close up 
to Monsieur Croquentin’s register. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


Once there, lie snatched the pen 
from the hands of a worthy citizen, 
who had just been signing his name 
in trembling letters, and wrote his 
signature with letters half an inch 
in size, on a clean page, which became 
suddenly darkened by the inscription ; 
and after executing a masterly flou- 
rish, embellished with sundry splashes 
and as intricate as a labyrinth, he 
passed the pen to the next candidate 
standing in a line behind him. 

u Cliicof!” read the next comer. 
u Odzooks, the gentleman writes mag- 
nificently !” 

Chicot, for it was he, having re- 
fused, as we have seen, to bear the 
King company, was chasing through 
the League on his private account. 
After attesting his presence in Mon- 
sieur Croquentin’s register, he imme- 
diately passed to Master Huriere’s. 
The latter had noticed the flaming 

O 

signature, and coveted a duplicate 
for his own page. Chicot, conse- 
quently, was received, not with open 
arms, but with an open book, and 
taking the pen from the hands of a 
wool merchant from the Rue de 
Bethisy, he wrote his name a second 
time, with a dash to which the first 
was a mere trifle ; after which, he 
asked La Huriere if he had a third 
register. 

Now, La Huriere understood no 
nonsense : he was a bad one to deal 
with out of his own tavern. He 
looked at Chicot askance, and Chicot 
looked him in the face. La Huriere 
muttered the word heretic, and Chi- 
cot mumbled, scullion ! La Huriere 
threw down his register, and seized 
nis sword, and Chicot laid down the 
j en to draw his blade from the scab- 
bard. In a word, there was every 
likelihood that they would come to 
blows, in which case the host of La 
Belle Etoile would, doubtless, have 
got what he had not bargained for, 
when Chicot, feeling some one pinch 
him from behind, turned round. 

The pincher was the King, dis- 
guised as a simple citizen, and with 
him Quelus and Maugiron, disguised 


242 

in the same manner, and carrying, be- 
sides their rapiers, an arquebus each 
on his shoulder. 

u Well, well !” said the King, 
u what means this ? Good Catholics 
quarrelling among each other ; ’sdeath, 
the example is a bad one !” 

u My gentleman,” said Chicot, 
without seeming to recognize the 
King, u address yourself to him who 
is in fault. Here is a knave who 
bawls after the passers-by to sign his 
register, and who, when they havo 
signed, bawls still louder !” 

La Huriere’s attention was with- 
drawn by a fresh inroad of zealots, 
and the rush separated the King, 
Chicot, and the mignons from the es- 
tablishment of the fanatical hotel- 
keeper. Nevertheless, from the top 
of the door-steps of an opposite 
dwelling they were able to overlook 
and witness the performance. 

u What fervor,” said Henry, u and 
how religion flourishes this evening 
in the streets of my good city !” 
u Yes, Sire, but it is rather hot for 
the heretics, and your Majesty knows 
that you are held to be one. Look 
to your left — a little more — a little 
more — there ! Well, what do you 
see ?” 

u Ah, ah, the big face of Monsieur 
de Mayenne, and the cardinal’s sharp 
nose.” 

u Hush, Sire! We play a safe 
game when we know where our ene- 
mies are, and when our enemies do 
not know where we are.” 

u Think you that I have anything 
to fear ?” 

u Heigh, mon Dieu ! in such a 
crowd as this, one cannot answer for 
what may happen. Such a one has 
an unclasped knife in his pocket, and 
the said knife, without knowing what 
it is about, walks into his neighbor’s 
body. A mere accident ! The neigh- 
bor swears a cruel oath, and cruelly 
dies ! Look elsewhere, Sire.” 
u Have I been remarked?” 
u I think not ; but you will be, in - 
fallibly, if you remain here any 
longer.” 


/ 


244 


DIANA OF MERIDORj OR, 


u Hurrah for the mass— hurrah for 
the mass !” were cries that proceeded 
from a stream of people that came 
from the market, and swept by, like a 
tide, into Rue de l’Arbre-Sec. 

u Hurrah for Monsieur de Guise — 
hurrah for the cardinal !” responded 
the crowd stationed at La Huriere’s 
door, as soon as it recognized the 
Lorraine princes. 

“ Oh, oh, what cries are these ?” 
said Henry, knitting his brows. 

u Cries which prove that every 
one is best in his place, and should 
remain there — Monsieur de Guise in 
the streets, and you in the Louvre. 
Back to the Louvre, Sire — back to 
the Louvre !” 

u Do you accompany us ?” 
u I ? Oh, no ! You do not want 
me, my son ; you have your usual 
body-guard. Back, Quelus — back, 
Maugiron ! I want to see the end 
of the play. It is curious, if not 
amusing.” 

u Where are you going ?” 
u To write my name in the other 
registers. I would have a thousand 
of my autographs circulating through 
the streets of Paris by to-morrow. 
Here we are on the quay; good eve- 
ning, my son ; do you take to the left 
— -I take to the right ; every man to 
his own road. I am off to Saint- 
Mery, to. hear a celebrated preaeher.” 
u Oh, what noise is that again ?” 
said the King hastily. u And why 
are people running toward the Pont- 



Chicot raised himself on tip-toe, 
but he could see nothing but a mass 
of people screaming, shouting, push- 
ing, and seeming to carry something in 
triumph. 

Suddenly, the waving mob opened 
at the spot where the quay widened, 
opposite the Rue de Lavandieres, and 
permitted the crowd to scatter to the 
right and left ; and, like the monster 
carried by the waves to the feet of 
Hippolytus, a man, who seemed to be 
the principal personage in this bur- 
lesque scene, was borne forward to 
the King’s feet. 


This man was a monk mounted on 
a donkey — a speaking, gesticulating 
monk. 

u Udsbuddikins !” said Chicot, as 
soon as he was able to discern the 
man and the animal, who now made 
their entrance on the scene ; u I spoke 
just now of a celebrated preacher who 
was haranguing at Saint -Mery ; I 
need not go so far. Listen to this 
one.” 

u A preacher on an ass ?” said 
Quelus. 

u Why not, my son ?” 

“ Why, it is Silenus !” said Mau- 
giron. 

u Which is the preacher ?” said 
Henry, “ they are both speaking at 
the same time.” 

u The lower one is the most elo- 
quent,” said Chicot, u but the upper 
one speaks the best French. Listen, 
Henry, listen.” 

u Silence !” was the cry on all sides, 
u silence !” 

u Silence !” cried Chicot, in a 
voice which was heard above all the 
others. 

Every voice was hushed. The peo- 
ple crowded round the monk, and the 
monk forthwith spoke his exordium. 

a Brethren,” said he, u Paris is a 
superb city ; Paris is the bride of the 
kingdom of France, and the Parisians 

O # 7 

are an ingenious people, the song 
says so.” 

And the monk began to sing at the 
top of his voice : 

“ Tell me, my Parisian friend, 

What of science dost thou know T* 

A terrific bray from the ass here 
interrupted the orator. 

The people burst out laughing. 

a Hold your tongue, Panurge !” 
cried the monk, u hold your tongue ! 
your turn will come, but let me speak 
first.” 

The donkey was silent. 

u Brethren,” continued the preach- 
er, u the earth is a valley of grief, 
in which man can rarely quench bis 
thirst otherwise than with his own 
tsars.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


245 


“ Why, he is dead drunk!” said 
the King. 

“ Parbleu /” ejaculated Chicot. 

“ I, who am speaking to you,” con- 
tinued the monk, “ just as you see 
me, am on my return from exile, like 
the Hebrews of old, and, for eight 
days past, Panurge and I have lived 
on alms.” 

“ Who is Panurge ?” asked the 
King. 

“The superior of his convent, in 
all probability,” said Chicot. “ But, 
let me listen, the worthy man touches 
my heart.” 

“ And by whose fault, friends ? 
By Herod’s. You know to what i 
Herod I allude.” 

“ And you, too, my son,” said 
Chicot, “ I have explained the ana- 
gram to you.” 

“ The knave.” 

“ Which do you mean ? me, the 
monk, or the ass ?” 

“ All three?” 

“ Brethren,” continued the monk, 
“ here is my donkey, whom I love as 
the pastor loves his sheep ; he can tell 
you how he came hither, in three 
days, from Villeneuve-le-Roi, in order 
to assist at the grand solemnity of 
this evening, and how we have arrived 

‘ With throats quite dry 
And purse empty.’ 

But Panurge and I were willing tra- 

O O 

veilers.” 

“ But who the devil is this Pa- 
nurge ?” reiterated -the King, his at- 
tention preoccupied by its Pantagru- 
elic sound. 

Here we are,” continued the 
monk, u and we have come to witness 
what is going on t only, although we 
can see, we cannot understand. 
What is the meaning of all this, bre- 
thren ? Is Herod to be dethroned 
to-day ? Is brother Henry to-day to 
be sent to his convent ?” 

u Oh, oh,” said Quelus, “ I have a 
great mind to tap that huge barrel ! 
What say you, Maugiron ?” 

“ Bah !” said Chicot, “let not a 
trifle anger you, Quelus Does not 


the King visit some convent every 
day ? I should say, Henry, that if 
you have nothing else to dread, you 
will have no reason to complain. Am 
I not right, Panurge?” 

The donkey, summoned by his 
name, cocked his ears, and commenced 
braying in a terrific manner. 

“ Oh, Panurge, oh,” said the monk, 
“ what are you doing ? Gentlemen,” 
continued lie, “ I left Paris with two 
companions, Panurge, my donkey, 
and Monsieur Chicot, the King’s fool. 
Gentlemen, can any one of you tell 
me what has become of my friend, 
Chicot ?” 

Chicot made a wry face. 

“ Ah !” said the King, “he is your 
friend !” 

Quelus and Maugiron laughed out- 
right. 

“ Your friend is a fine fellow,” 
said the King, “ and very respectable. 
What is his name ?” 

“ Gorenflot, Henry ; you know, that 
same worthy Gorenflot of whom you 
have already heard a little from Mon- 
sieur de Morvilliers.” 

“The incendiary of Saint-Gene- 
vieve ?” * 

“ The same.” 

“ Then, I shall order him to bo 
hung on the spot.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“ Because he has no neck.” 

“ Brethren,” continued Gorenflot, 
“ brethren, you see before you a veri- 
table martyr. Brethren, it is my 
cause that you are now defending, 
or, rather, the cause of all good 
Catholics. You have no idea what is 
passing in the provinces, and what 
the Huguenots are brewing. We 

o o 

were obliged to kill one ourselves at 
Lyons, where he was preaching rebel- 
lion. As long as a single brood shall 
remain in all France, true men will 
have no peace. To arms, brethren, 
to arms !” 

A number of voices repeated, “ T® 
arms !” 

“ Sdeath !” said the King. “ Si- 
lence the drunken fool, or we shall 
have a second Saint-Barthelemy.” 


246 


DIANA OF MERIDOR, OR, 


c Wait, wait,” said Cliicot. 

And snatching a sarhacand from 
Quelus, lie passed behind the monk, 
and with the hollow and sonorous in- 
strument, dealt him a severe blow on 
the shoulder. 

u Murder !” cried the monk. 
u Hallo, is that you ?” said Chi- 
cot, slipping his head under the 
monk’s arms. u How goes it, frock- 
ling ?” 

u Help, Monsieur Chicot, help !” 
cried the monk. u The enemies of 
our faith want to murder me, but I 
shall not die without making my 
voice heard. Fire for the Huguenots. 
— Faggots for the Bearnais !” 

u Will you hold your tongue, ani- 
mal ?” 

u To the devil with the Gascons!” 
A second blow, not from a sarba- 
cand, but from a stick, fell upon the 
monk’s other shoulder, and this time 
caused him to shriek out with real 
pain. 

Chicot, astonished, looked round, 
but he could only see the stick. The 
blow had been given by a man who 
was instantly lost in the crowd, after 
administering this flying chastisement 
to brother Gorenflot. 

u Ho, ho,” said Chicot, u who the 
deuce can it be, who has taken our 
part ? Can it be a countryman ? I 
must find out.” 

With these words, he started in 
pursuit of him of the stick, who was 
slipping away by the quay, with a 
single companion. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE. 

Chicot had good legs, and he could 
have used them effectually on the 
present occasion, to overtake the man 
who had just been caning Gorenflot, 
if something in the air of this man, 
and especially of his companion, had 
not warned him that there might be 


danger in challenging a discovery, 
which he seemed to be desirous of 
avoiding. Indeed, it was quite evi- 
dent that the two fugitives were 
seeking to lose themselves in the 
crowd, only turning round at the 
corners of the streets, to assure them- 
selves that they were not followed. 

Chicot concluded that there was 
only one way of avoiding the appear- 
ance of watching them, which was to 
precede them. They were now both 
going in the direction of the Rue St. 
Honore, through the Rue de la Mon- 
naie and the Rue Tirechappe ; at the 
corner of the later, he passed them, and 
hastened to place himself in ambus- 
cade, at the head of the Rue des Bour- 
donnais. 

The two men walked up the Rue 
Saint-Honore, gliding along the 
houses on the side of the corn-market, 
and with their hats pulled over their 
foreheads, and their cloaks muffling 
their faces, hurried with a sort of 
military step, toward the Rue de la 
Ferronnerie. Chicot continued to 
precede them. 

At the corner of the Rue de la 
Ferronnerie, the two men stopped for 
the last time, to look round. 

During this, Chicot had gained 
some advance, and was half way up 
the street. 

About half way up the street, and 
opposite a ruinous mansion, stood a 
litter harnessed to two large sized 
horses. With one glance, Chicot saw 
that the driver was asleep on the 
front seat, and a woman inside, with 
her face close to the window, evident- 
ly in a state of anxiety ; lie had no 
doubt but that the litter was waiting for 
the two men. Turning behind it, 
he slipped under a stone slab, which 
served as a stall for vegetable dealers, 
who, at the period we arc speaking of, 
held a market twice a week in the 
Rue de la Ferronnerie. 

Scarcely was he posted, when he 
saw the two v meu standing close to 
the horses, and again looking aux- 
iously in every direction ; next, one 
of them proceeded to awake the 


I 


THE LADY OF 

driver, and as the fellow was not ea- 
sily roused, a cap di diou distinctly 
enunciated, escaped from the strang- 
er’s lips, while his companion, still 
more impatient, pricked the man in 
the neck with the point of his dagger. 

u Ho, ho !” said Chicot, as soon as 
he heard the ejaculation, u I was not 
mistaken! These are countrymen of 
mine, and I am no longer astonished 
at their having punished Gorenflot 
for having spoken disrespectfully of 
the Gascons !” 

The fair inmate of the litter, re- 
cognizing the two men as the persons 
she was waiting for, leaned forward 
through the door of the vehicle. 
Chicot was then able to see her dis- 
tinctly. She might have been twenty 
or twenty-two years of age ; she was 
very beautiful and very pale, and had 
it been daylight, the damp vapors 
which moistened her golden locks, 
the dark rings under her eyes, her 
florid hands, and the languishing at- 
titude of her whole body, would have 
indicated to experienced eyes the 
lature of her complaint. 

But Chicot was only struck by 
three things — that she was young, 
pale, and fair complexioned. 

The two men having approached 
the litter, intercepted, of course, Chi- 
cot’s view. 

The taller of the two received in 
his two hands, the white hand which 
was extended to him through the 
door of the vehicle, while he raised 
himself on the steps, saying : 

u Well, sweetest, dearest, how do 
you find yourself?” 

The lady replied by shaking her 
head with a melancholy smile, and by 
pointing to her smelling-bottle. 

u Still subject to fainting fits, 
Ventre Saint- Gris ! How angry I 

should be with you, my sweet one, for 
being thus sick, if 1 had not reason 
o impute your indisposition to my- 
*elf !” 

u And why the deuce do you bring 
Vladame here to Paris with you ?” 
ixcl aimed the other man, gruffly. 

4 It is, on my faith, a confounded , 


MONSOREAU. 247 

shame that you must have always 
some petticoat pinned to your doub 
let !” 

u Hey, my dear Agrippa,” said the 
other man, who had first spoken, and 
who appeared to be the lady’s lover 
or husband, u it is so distressing to 
be separated from what we love !” 

A she uttered these words, he ex- 
changed with the lady looks of the 
deepest affection. 

u Corbioux , you make me mad, by 
my soul, when you speak in that 
way !” resumed his gruff companion. 
u Have you come to Paris to make 
love, and enact the brisk gallant ? 
It seems to me that Bearn . is wide 
enough for your sentimental journeys 
without extending them to Babylon, 
where you have narrowly missed ma- 
king us both catch it twenty times 
this evening. Go back there if you 
would dangle at the curtains of a wo- 
man’s litter ; but here, Mordioux , 
let all our intrigue be political, mas- 
ter of mine.’’ 

Chicot, when he heard the word 
master, would gladly have raised his 
head ; but he dared not risk detection. 

u Let him scold, sweetheart, and 
mind not what he says. I verily be- 
lieve that he would be as sick as you, 
and that like you he would have va- 
pors and fainting fits, if he were de- 
prived of the privilege and opportu- 
nity of scolding.” 

u At least, Ventre Saint- Gris, as 
you say yourself,’’ cried the grum- 
bler, “get into the litter if you want 
to say sweet things to Madame. You 
will run less risk of being discovered, 
than by standing in the street.” 
u You are right, Agrippa,” said the 
willing Gascon. u So you see, sweet- 
heart, that he is not so bad a coun- 
sellor after all. There, make room 
for me ; that is to say, if you will 
permit me to sit by your side, since 
there is no place for me at your 
knees.’’ 

“ Not only do I permit, Sire, but I 
ardently wish it.” 

“ Sire !” muttered Chicot, who, bv 
I a thoughtless movement, hurt his hea l 


l 


248 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR. 


against the stone above. u Sire — 

what does that mean ?” 

Meanwhile, the happy lover had 
availed himself of the lady’s permis- 
sion, and the vehicle creaked audibly 
under the additional weight. 

u Mordioux ,” exclaimed the com- 
peer outside, u man is really a very 
stupid animal !” 

u May I be hanged if I can make 
this out,” muttered Chicot, u but pa- 
tience ; all will come out.” 

u Oh, how happy I am !” re- 
sumed the person who received the ti- 
tle of Sire, and without appearing to 
inind his friend’s impatience, to 
which, indeed, he seemed well accus- 
tomed. u Ventre Saint- Gris, this is 
a lucky day ! Here arc my good peo- 
ple of Paris, who execrate me, and 
who would kill me without mercy if 
they knew where to find me ; here 
are my good people of Paris, hard at 
work to clear the way for me, to the 
throne, and here am 1 in the company 
of the woman I love ! What place 
is this, D’Aubigne ? When I am 
King, I shall cause a statue to be 
erected on this very spot, dedicated to 
the good genius of the Bearnais.” 
u Of the Bearn” — 

Chicot did not finish : he just then 
received another bump, close to the 
first. 

u We are in the Rue de la Ferron- 
nerie, Sire ; and a shocking bad place 
it is to be in,” answered D’Aubigne, 
whose cross humor inclined him to 
quarrel with things when he was tired 
of quarrelling with men. 

u It seems to me,” resumed Henry, 
for the reader has, doubtless, by this 
time, recognized the King of Navarre ; 
‘ 4 it seems to me that my whole life 
lies pictured before me ; that I see 
myself King; that I feel myself on 
the throne, mighty and powerful, but 
less beloved, perhaps, than I am at 
this moment. It seems to me that. I 
can penetrate into the future, even to 
the gates of the tomb. Oh, my love, 
tell me again that you love me ; for 
the sound of your voice melts my 
heart !” 


And the Bearnais, with that feeling 
of melancholy which at times took 
entire possession of him, heaved a 
deep sigh, and let his head fall on 
his mistress’s shoulder. 

u Oh, Mon Dieu !” cried the young 
woman in alarm, u do you feel un- 
well, Sire ?” 

u Good, the only thing wanting !” 
said D’Aubigne. u A pretty soldier, 
a pretty King, a pretty general, he 
faints !” 

u No, sweetheart, re-assure your- 
self,” said Henry, u were I to faint 
by your side, it would be from hap- 
piness.” 

a Verily, Sire,” said D’Aubigne, 
u I know not why you sign your 
name Henry of Navarre, you should 
sign Ronsard or Clement Marot. 
Cordioux , how happens it that you 
and Madame Margot agree so ill 
together, seeing that you are both 
given to poetry ?” 

u Ah, D’Aubigne, pray do not 
speak of my wife ! Ventre Saint - 
Gris , you know the proverb. If we 
were to meet her ?” 

u Although she is in Navarre, hey?” 
said D’Aubigne. 

u Ventre Saint- Gris, am I not in 
Navarre myself, or at least am I not 
supposed to be there ? See, Agrippa, 
you have given me the cold fever ! 
Get in, and let us return to oui 
home.” 

u No, faith,” said D’Aubigne, 
u proceed, I will follow behind. I 
should be in your way, and what is 
worse, you would be in mine.” 

u Close the door, then, great bear, 
and do as you please,” said Henry. 

Then addressing the driver, he 
added : 

u Lavarenne, where you know.’’ 
The litter slowly separated, fol- 
lowed by D’Aubigne, who, although 
he scolded the friend, watched for the 
King. 

This departure delivered Chicot 
from a dreadful apprehension, for 
D’Aubigne was not the man to let 
him live who had heard such a con- 
versation with Henry. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


249 


u Let us see,” said Chicot, creep- 
ing on all fours from his hiding 
place, u must the Valois be informed 
of this r” 

And Chicot stood upright to restore 
elasticity to his cramped and stiffened 
limbs. 

u And why should he,” resumed 
the Gascon, continuing his soliloquy, 
u two men and a poor woman who 
meet privately ! No, it would be 
cowardly. No, I shall say nothing, 
and besides, it is quite sufficient that 
1 should be informed, since, after all, 
it is I who am King.” 

And Chicot executed a merry step 
for his private satisfaction. 

u Pleasant work, this making love,” 
continued Chicot, u but D’Aubigne 
is right; sweet Henry of Navarre 
makes too much love for a Kins; in 
partibus. A year since it was for 
Madame de Sauves he came up to 
Paris, and now it is for this charming 
little creature who is so subject to 
fainting fits. Who the deuce can she 
be ? La Fosseuse, probably. And 
row I think of it, if Henry of Na- 
varre be really a pretendant, if it be 
that he really thinks of the throne, 
he must concert some plan for the 
destruction of his enemy, the Bala- 
fre, of his enemy the Cardinal of 
Guise, and of his enemy, the sweet 
Duke of Mayenne. Henry of Na- 
varre, I love thee ! Thou wilt surely 
some day or other deal that horrible 
Lorraine butcher, an ugly blow ! Not 
a word, therefore, will I breathe of 
what I have seen and heard.” 

Just at this moment, a gang of 
drunken Leaguers passed by, yelling, 
Hurrah for the mass — To death with 
the Bearnais — To the stake with the 
Huguenots — Fire and faggots for the 
heretics ! 

Meanwhile, the litter turned the 
angle of the cemetery of the Saints- 
Innocens, and disappeared away in 
the Rue Saint-Denis. 

u Let us see,” said Chicot ; u let 
us recapitulate. 1 have seen the 
Cardinal of Guise ; I have seen the 
Duke of Mayenne ; 1 have seen King 


Henry of Valois, I have seen King 
Henry of Navarre ; a single prince is 
missing from my list ; that is, the 
Duke of Anjou ; let us look for him 
until I find him. Where is my Francis 
111. ? Udsbuddikins, I should be 
glad to lay my eyes on the worthy 
monarch !” 

With these words, Chicot started 
in the direction of the Church of 
Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. 

Chicot was not alone in his anxiety 
to discover the whereabouts of the 
Duke of Anjou: the Guises, too, 
were seeking him in every direction, 
but were not more fortunate than 
Chicot. My lord of Anjou was not 
a man to expose himself, and we 
shall see, by and by, what were the 
precautions that detained him from 
his friends. 

At one moment, however, Chicot 
thought that he had found him. This 
was m the Rue Bethisy, where, in a 
numerous group collected at the door- 
way of a wine-dealer, he recognized 
Monsieur de * Monsoreau and the 
Balafre. 

u Good !” said he. u Here is the 
sucker ; the shark cannot be far dis- 
tant.” 

Chicot was mistaken. Monsieur 
de Monsoreau and the Balafre were 
busily employed in filling bumpers 
for a stammering orator who was ad- 
dressing the drunken crowd inside. 

This orator was Gorenflot — Goren- 
flot dead drunk — Gorenflot describing 
his journey to Lyons, and his duel in 
a tavern with one of Calvin’s rascally 
emissaries. 

To his narrative, in which it seem- 
ed to him there were circumstances 
that went to explain Nicholas David’s 
silence, Monsieur de Guise paid the 
closest attention. 

For the rest, the Rue Bethisy was 
crowded with people : many gentle- 
men belonging to the League had 
fastened their horses to one of the 
posts to be met with in most of the 
streets at the period we are. speaking 
of. Chicot took up a position near 
this post, and listened. 


250 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Gorenflot, tottering, screaming, 
kicking, every five minutes tumbling 
from Panurge and unceremoniously 
hoisted back again — Gorenflot, only 
able to speak by jerks, but unfortu- 
nately still able to speak, was the 
plaything of the duke’s urging and 
Monsieur de Monsoreau’s ingenuity. 
.Between them scraps of sense and 
fragments of avowals were being ex- 

n o 

tracted from the monk. 

The position of affairs was now 
really alarming, much more so than 
the presence of the King of Navarre 
in Paris. Chicot was expecting every 
moment to hear Gorenflot mention 
his name, which would have instantly 
explained the whole mystery. He 
lost no time : cutting or untying the 
bridles of the horses, who were beat- 
ing their sides against the shutters of 
the adjoining shops, he pricked two 
or three of them, and sent the whole 
pack galloping and neighing into the 
crowd, which was soon broken and 
dispersed. 

Gorenflot feared for Panurge ; the 
gentlemen feared for their horses and 
valises, and many feared for their 
bones. All was confusion, and the 
cry of fire first raised by Chicot was 
repeated by a thousand voices. The 
Gascon shot like an arrow through 

o 

the groups, and coming up with Go- 
renflot, to whom he displayed a pair 
of flaming eyes, which had the effect 
of sobering him a little, he seized 
Panurge by the bridle, and instead 
of following the crowd, turned his 
back on it ; so that this double 
movement, in opposite directions, soon 
left a notable space between Goren- 
flot and the Duke of Guise, and this 
space was soon filled up by knots of 
curious stragglers, who, as usual on 
such occasions, had hurried to the 
spot to learn the cause of the uproar. 

Chicot dragged the staggering 
monk to one of the archways of the 
church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, 
where he backed him and Panurge 
against the wall. When a little 
steadied, the pair looked passably like 
a relievo cut out from the rude stone, j 


u Ho, drunken sot,” said he, u ho, 
heathen — ho, traitor — ho, renegade ! 
Will you ever thus prefer the wine- 
cup to your friend ?” 

a Ah ! Monsieur Chicot,” stam- 
mered the monk. 

u What — I feed you, wretch !” con- 
tinued Chicot — u I give you drink — 
I fill your body and your pockets, and 
you would betray me !” 

u Ah, Chicot !” said the monk, 
greatly moved. 

u You would betray my secrets, 
scoundrel !’’ 

u My dear fellow !” 

“ Not a word! You are a hypo- 
crite, and deserve chastisement.” 

The monk w r as thick-set, vigorous, 
huge and strong as a bull, but cowed 
by repentance, if not helpless from 
wine, he was just then like an air 
balloon in the hands of the exaspe- 
rated Chicot. 

Panurge was alone able to contend 
against the violence done his master ; 
but his kicks only brought him blows,' 
with which Chicot heartily belabored 
him. 

u Chastise me !” faltered the monk, 
u chastise your friend, my deal- Mon- 
sieur Chicot!” 

u Yes, on the very instant,” rejoin- 
ed the Gascon. 

Chicot’s cane was now transferred 
from the donkey’s back to the monk’s 
broad and fleshy shoulders. 

u Oh, if 1 was only sober !” cried 
Gorenflot with a movement of anger 
u You would - flog me, ungrateful 
man — nne, your friend ?” 

You my friend, Monsieur Chicot, 
and you are killing me !” 

u Whom we love, we chastise.” 
u Then kill me outright !” cried 
Gorenflot. 

u It would be only serving you right A 
u Oh, if I were only sober !” again 
sobbed the monk. 

u You have said so already, and it 
did you no good.” 

And Chicot again bestowed fresh 

C 

proofs of his friendship on the back 
of the poor monk, who began to bel 
low with all his might 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


251 


“Now,” said the Gascon, after a 
few severe blows, “ I discharge you. 
Mount Panurge and go and rest yourself 
decently at the Corne d’Abondance.” 
u I cannot see a yard ahead/’ said 
the monk, the big tears running down 
his cheeks. 

“ Ah !” said Chicot, u if you could 
only sleep away the wine you have 
drunk ! It would at least sober you : 
but no, I must again serve you as a 
guide.” 

And Chicot began to pull at the 
ass by the bridle, while the monk, 
grasping the pommel of the saddle, 
endeavored to preserve his centre of 
gravity. 

Thus they crossed the Pont aux 
Meuniers, the Rue St. Earthelemy, 
the small bridge, and proceeded up 
the Rue St. Jacques — the monk still 
weeping and Chicot still pulling. 

By Chicot’s orders, two of Master 
Bonhomet’s waiters lifted the monk 
from his donkey, and carried him to 
the room with which the reader is 
already acquainted. 

u He is disposed of,” said Master 
Bonhomet, when he returned. 

“ He is in bed ?” asked Chicot. 
u He is snoring.” 

“ Good ! But, as one day or other 
he will awake, recollect that 1 do not 
want him to know how he got back 
here ; it would be as well for him to 
believe that he ha$ not stirred from 
this since the famous night lie 
made such a disturbance in his con- 
vent, when he took all that occurred 
to him subsequently for a dream.” 
u Enough said, Seigneur Chicot. 
But what has befallen the poor 
monk ?” 

a Something very serious ; it seems 
that at Lyons he picked a quarrel 
with one of Monsieur de Mayenne’s 
emissaries and killed him.” 

“ Oh, mon Dieu /” cried the host, 
“ and in consequence — ” 

u And in consequence, Monsieur 
de Mayenne has sworn to be the 
death of him, whenever he can lay 
bis hands upon him.” 

a Make yourself easy,” said Bon- 


homet ; u he shall not stir from this 
on any pretext.” 

“ Right. And now,” continued 

O J 

the Gascon, his mind at ease on the 
monk’s account, u I must go and see 
what has become of my lord of An- 
jou. Now for it.” 

With these words he started for the 
hotel of his Majesty, Francis III 


CHAPTER III 

THE PRINCE AND HIS FRIEND. 

As has been seen, Chicot had search- 
ed in vain through the streets of Paris 
for the Duke d ’Anjou, during the 
soiree of the League. 

The Duke of Guise, it will be re- 
collected, had invited the prince to 
be present ; and this invitation had 
awakened suspicions in the naturally 
mistrusting mind of his Highness. 

Nevertheless, as his own interest 
demanded that he should see with his 
own eves the proceedings of the eve 
ning, he determined to accept the in 
vitation ; but, at the same time, he 
determined, when he left his palace, to 
be well and properly escorted. 

When a man is about to face dan- 
ger, he arms himself with his favorite 
weapon : thus, the duke went in search 
of his sword, which was Bussy d’Ani- 
boise. 

To be induced to take such a step 
as this, the apprehensions of the duke 
must have been very great. Ever 
since he had broken his promise to 
Bussy, in the matter of Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, he had not ventured upon 
any communication with his favorite, 
nor had Bussy waited on him. In- 
deed, supposing him to be in Pussy’s 
place, and at the same time to have 
Pussy’s high spirit, he would scarcely 
have manifested more resentment to- 
ward the prince, who should have so 
cruelly disappointed him. 


252 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


For the rest, Bussy, like all men 
possessing great natural gifts, was 
more sensible to pain than pleasure ; 
the man who is cool and calm in the 
face of danger, and who will brave 
fire and the sword without flinching, 
is more apt to be affected by painful 
emotions proceeding from moral cau- 
ses, than the coward. The man from 
whom woman can most easily draw 
tears, is the man most fearless in his 
encounters with his fellow men. 

Bussy’s mental agony was such 
as to steep his senses in utter obli- 
vion of everything that did not imme- 
diately rolate to his suffering, and 
its causes. He had seen Diana re- 
ceived at court as the Countess of 
Monsoreau, and appointed by Queen 
Louisa one of her ladies in waiting ; 
he had seen a thousand curious eyes 
gaze on that unrivalled beauty which 
he had, as it were, drawn from the 
tomb in which it was buried. He 
had, during the whole evening, kept 
his eager looks fixed on the lovely 
victim ; while she did not once raise 
her head, and amid all the splendor 
of the fite y Bussy, unjust like all 
men who truly love — Bussy, unmind- 
ful of the past, and of the prospect 
of happiness the past had once held 
out to him ; Bussy did not once ask 
himself, how muen Diana must have 
suffered, to have been forced to avoid 
all communication with him, whose 
indispensable sympathy, so distinct 
from the cold indifference and imper- 
tinent curiosity of the surrounding 
crowd, could alone have cheered her 
sinking heart. 

u Oh !” said Bussy to himself, af- 
ter he had waited in vain for a single 
look, u women are only artful and 
bold, when it is their purpose to de- 
ceive a husband, a guardian or a parent ; 
they are invariably timid and awkward 
where they have a mere debt of gra- 
titude to pay ; so much do they 
dread exhibiting the slightest symp- 
toms of passion — they attach such a 
price to this slight favor, that they 
will not hesitate to vex and torment 
the man who loves them most, and 


even to break his heart, if such ba 
the whim of the moment ! Diana 
might say to me frankly, 4 I thank 
you, Monsieur de Bussy, for what you 
have done for me, but I have ceased 
to love you.’ Such a declaration 
would have killed or cured me on the 
spot. But, no f She has really a 
preference for me — she lets me love 
her, and love her without reward. 
But this game will not avail her, for 
I love her no longer.” 

And, boiling over with fury and 
resentment, he withdrew to a distance 
from the royal party. 

At that moment, his was no more 
that noble countenance, at which all 
women were wont to gaze with love, 
and men with fear and trembling; 
his brow was shaded, his eye lacked 
its lustre, his erect and lofty port was 
gone. 

As he was going out, Bussy saw 
himself in a large Venetian mirror, 
and found that he looked horrible. 

44 I am a fool !” said he. 44 What 
— because one woman chooses to scorn 
me, shall I render myself odious in 
the eyes of all others ? And then, 
why does she scorn me, or rather for 
whose sake ? 

44 Is it for the sake of that long 
living skeleton, rooted there to the 
floor at a distance of ten paces from 
her, and who, like her, pretends not 
to see me ? And ^ to think, that if I 

chose, I could in a few minutes have 
him silent and cold under my knee, 
with ten inches of my sword through 
his heart ; to think, that if I chose, I 
could bespatter that white robe with 
the blood of him who has decora ed 
it with flowers ; to think, that if I 
chose, failing to make myself be- 
loved, I could make myself feared 
and hated ! 

44 Oh, her hatred — her hatred, 
rather than her indifference ! 

44 Yes, but to act thus, would be at 
once mean and vulgar — so would Que- 
lus or a Maugiron, if a Quelus 
or a Maugiron knew what it. was 
to love. Rather would 1 resemble 
that hero of Plutarch, whom 1 have 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


253 


ro much admired — that young Anti- 
oclius dying from love, silent and un- 
complaining. Yes, I will bridle my 
resentment. Yes, I, who have grap- 
pled with all the most fearful men of 
the present day — I, who have seen 
Crillon, brave Crillon himself, dis- 
armed before me, and who have had 
his life at my mercy — yes, I will sub- 
due my grief, I will strangle it as did 
Hercules the giant Antoeus, without 
once letting him touch, even with his 
foot, hope, his mother. No, nothing 
is impossible to me, Bussy, who, like 
Crillon, have been surnamed the brave, 
and all that heroes have done I will 
do !” 

With these words, he relaxed his 
hand, which was convulsively tearing 
his breast, he wiped away the mois- 
ture from his brow, and walked slowly 
toward the door. He was on the 
point of striking the tapestry with 
his clenched hand, but, exhorting 
himself to patience and moderation, 
he went out with a smile on his lips 
and an unruffled brow, while his 
heart was a volcano of raging fires. 

True, on his way, he encountered 
the Duke d’ Anjou, and turned aside 
his head, for with all his moral reso- 
lution, he could not go so far as to 
?reet with a smile, or even with a 
bow, the prince, who calling him his 
friend, had proved so false to him. 

Ashe passed, the prince pronounced 
nhe name of Bussy, but Bussy went on 
his way without deigning to notice the 
appeal. 

Once at home, Bussy laid his sword 
ipon the table, drew his dagger from 
its sheath, and unclasping himself his 
sloak and doublet, he sat himself down 
Dn a large fauteuil, leaning his head 
against the scutcheon of his arms 
which decorated the back. 

His people, seeing him silent and 
inattentive, took it for granted that 
he was seeking rest, and consequently 
withdrew. But Bussy slept not ; he 
was wrapped in revery. 

He passed in this manner several 
hours, without perceiving that a man 
seated at the other end of the room, 


was watching him with the closest at- 
tention. The stranger made no sign, 
and uttered no word ; awaiting, in all 
probability, an opportunity for an- 
nouncing his presence. 

At length, a cold shudder shot 
across Bussy’s shoulders, and made 
him roll his eyes. The watcher stir- 
red not. 

A brief space elapsed, and the teeth 
of the count began to chattsr ; his 
arms stiffened, and his head, gliding 
down the back of the chair, fell heavily 
upon his shoulder. 

The stranger now rose from his 
chair, and heaving a deep sigh, ap- 
proached him. 

u Monsieur le Comte,” said he, 
u you have a fever.” 

The count looked up, his face glow- 
ing with the heat of the fit. 

u Oh — is that you, Remy ?” said he 
ct Yes, 1 have been waiting your re- 
turn.” 

u My return ! Why expect it ?” 
u Because, where one suffers, one 
is not apt to remain long.” 

u Thank you, best of friends,” 
said Bussy, taking the young man by 
the hand. 

Remy retained for some moments 
that formidable hand, now become as 
feeble as a child’s, and pressed it to 
his heart with affection and respect. 

u See here, Monsieur le Comte,” 
said he, u the question is, do you 
want to continue thus ? If you want 
the fever to gain on you, and pull you 
down, keep moving about ; but if 
you want to get the better of it, take 
to your bed, and have read to you 
some good book, from which you can 
derive lessons of resignation and sub- 
mission.” 

There was nothing left for the count 
to do in this world, but to obey ; and 
so he obeyed. 

Accordingly, when his friends came 
to visit him, they found him in bed. 

During the whole of the following 
day, Remy watched by the count’s 
pillow. He acted in the double ca- 
pacity of a physician, for the soul 
and for the body : he had cooling 


‘254 


DIAiNA Of 1 MERIDOR j OR, 


drinks for the one, and gentle words 
for the other. ] 

But the next day, which was the ] 
day Monsieur de Guise made his ap- 
pearance at the Louvre, when Bussy 
looked round for Remy, Remy was 
not there. 

a He is wearied out,” thought 
Bussy ; a and no wonder ! The poor 
fellow must have sadly needed a little 
fresh air — a little sun ! And then, 
without doubt, Gertrude has been ex- 
pecting him — Gertrude is in humble 
condition of life, but she loves him — 
and a waiting-woman, when she 
loves, out-values a Queen.” 

The day passed away, and there 
was no sign of Remy. Now, just 
because he was absent, Bussy want- 
ed him, and he began to feel dread- 
fully annoyed at his seemiug neglect. 

9 U Oh,” muttered he, once or twice, 
“I who still believed in friendship and 
gratitude ! But from this forth, I will 
believe in nothing !” 

Toward evening, when the streets 
began to fill with people and noises — 
when, by the dim twilight, Bussy 
could scarcely distinguish objects in 1 
his room, he heard a number of loud 
voices in his ante-chamber. 

A servant rushed into the- room, 
with a frightened air. 

u My lord, the Duke of Anjou !” 
said he. 

u Show his Highness in,” said 
Bussy, knitting his brows at the mere 
idea that his master should concern 
himself about him — a master whose 
very politeness he despised. 

The duke entered. Bussy’s room 
was without lights ; the sick at heart 
prefer darkness to light, for they can 
people it with phantoms. 

u You are too gloomy here, Bussy,” 
said the prince. u Surely it cannot 
be agreeable to you.” 

Bussy was silent ; disgust closed 
his lips. 

u Are you so seriously indisposed,” 
continued the duke, “ that you can- 
not answer me ?” 

u I am really very sick, my lord,” 
murmured Bussy. 


u Then this is the reason why 1 
have not seen you, for the two days 
past ?” rejoined the duke. 

u Yes, my lord,” answered Bussy. 
The prince, feeling nettled by the la- 
conic style of these replies, made two or 
three turns round the room, looking at 
the carvings as they stood out in the 
deepening shades of night, and ex- 
amining the draperies. 

u You have comfortable quarters, 
Bussy ; it seems so to me, at least,” 
said the duke. 

Bussy made no answer. 
u Gentlemen,” said the duke, turn- 
ing to his suite, u wait for me in the 
adjoining room : my poor Bussy must 
be really very unwell. Why has Mi- 
ron not been sent for ? The physi- 
cian of a King would not be too good 
for Bussy.” 

One of Bussy’s personal attend- 
ants shook his head : the duke re- 
marked the movement. 

u Come, Bussy, what is your com- 
plaint ?” asked the prince, almost 
obsequiously. 

u 1 do not know,” replied the count. 
The duke drew a sigh ; he was 
like a lover, who, the more he meets 
with repulse and scorn, the more he 
becomes humble and submissive. 

“ Come, speak to me, Bussy !” 
said he." 

u What shall I say to you, my 
lord r” 

u You are angry with me, eh?” 
said the prince, sinking his voice. 

u Angry — why should I be angry ? 
And besides, people do not get angry 
with princes. Of what use would it 
be ?” 

The duke was silent. 
u But,” resumed Bussy, u we are 
wasting time and words. Come to 
the point, my lord.” 

The duke looked at Bussy. 
u You want my services, do you 
not ?” continued the latter, with in- 
conceivable harshness of voice and 
manner. 

u Ah, Monsieur de Bussy !” 

“ Of course, you want my services 
— I know it Do you suppose that i 


THE LADY OF MORSOREAU. 


255 


imagine that it is out of friendship 
you have come to see me ? No, 
Pardieu'! for friendship you have 
not for any man living !” 

“ Oh, Bussy, how can you say 
such things to me !” 

“ Come, let us have done with this : 
speak, my lord : what do you require ? 
When one belongs to a prince, and 
when that prince dissembles so far as 
to call you his friend — well, we must 
feel grateful to him for his dissem- 
bling, and be prepared to make for 
him every sacrifice, even that of life ? 
Speak, my lord.” 

The duke blushed, but, as it was 
dark, his blushes were unseen. 

“ I do not want your services, Bus- 
gy,” said he, “ and you are mistaken 
in attributing my visit to interested 
motives. I only wished, seeing what 
a fine evening it is, and all Paris 
astir about the signing of the League, 
to have your company for a stroll into 
the city.” 

Bussy looked at the duke. 

“ Have you not Aurilly ?” he ask- 
ed. 

“ A lute player ?” 

“ Ah, my lord, he is something 
more than a mere lute player, and I 
believe that he discharges other offi- 
ces near your person. Moreover, be- 
sides Aurilly you have ten or twelve 
gentlemen whose swords 1 can hear 
rattling against the wainscotting of 
my ante-chamber.” 

The door-curtain was slowly raised. 

“ Who is there ?” asked the duke, 
haughtily ; “ and who dares enter a 
room in which I am, without my per- 
mission ?” 

“ I, Remy,” replied Le Haudouin, 
making a majestic entry, and nowise 
embarrassed. 

“ Who is Remy?” asked the duke. 

“ Remy, my lord,” replied the 
young man, “ is the doctor.” 

“ Remy is more than the doctor, 
my lord,” said Bussy — “he is the pa- 
tient’s friend.” 

“ Ah !” ejaculated the duke, in a 
tone that showed how much he felt 
galled by Bussy’s addition 


“ You have heard what my lord 
wishes,” said Bussy, preparing to 
leave his bed. 

“ Yes ; my lord wishes you to ac- 
company him, but” — 

u But what ?” said the duke. 
u But you cannot accompany, my 
lord,” replied Le Haudouin. 

“ Why so ?” exclaimed Francis. 

“ Because it is too cold out of doors, 
my lord.” 

u Too cold !” said the duke, sur- 
prised that any one should be found 
bold enough to oppose him. 

“ Yes, too cold. Consequently, I 
who am answerable for Monsieur de 
Bussy’s health to his friends, and 
more especially to myself, forbid him 
to leave his room.” 

Notwithstanding this inhibition, 
Bussy was on the point of jumping 
out of bed, when he met Remy’s 
hand, which pressed his significantly 
u Oh, very good !” said the duke. 
“ Since it will be so perilous for him 
to come out, let him remain.” 

And his Highness, nettled beyond 
measure, made two steps toward the 
door. 

Bussy stirred not. 

The duke returned to the bed. 

“ And so you are determined,” said 
he, “ you will not expose yourself?” 
u You have heard, my lord,” said 
Bussy — “ the doctor forbids me.” 

“ You should see Miron, Bussy ; 
he is a learned leech.” 

“ My lord, I prefer a leech who is 
my friend, to a learned leech,” said 
Bussy. 

“ Well, then, good bye!” 
u Good bye, my lord !” 

And the duke bustled out of the 
room. 

Remy wmtehed until he had left the 
hotel, and then hastened back to the 
bedside of the sick man. 

u Come, Monseigneur,” said he, 
“ you must rise, and that instantly.” 
“ What for?” 

“To take a turn with me. The 
air is too close in this room.” 

“ Why, just now you told the duke 
that it was too cold out of doors !” 


256 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ The weather has changed since j 
his departure.” 

“ And” — said Bussy, raising him- 
self up in an inquiring manner. 

“ And, at present,” replied Le 
Haudouin, “ I am convinced that the 
air will do you good.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Bus- 
sy. 

“ Do you understand my prescrip- 
tions ? No : but you take them, ne- 
vertheless. Come, up — rise ! A walk 
with my lord the Duke of Anjou 
would have been dangerous— -with the 
leech, it will be salutary. You have 
my word for it. Have you lost your 
confidence in me ? If so, you may as 
well dismiss me.” 

“ Well, then,” said Bussy, “ since 
you will have it.” 

“ You must.” 

Bussy rose from nis bed, pale and 
trembling. 

u Verily, thy sickness becomes 
thee ! How interesting !” 

o v 

“ Where are we going ?” 
u To a place where I informed my- 
self personally to-day that the air is 
very fine.” • 

“ Very fine !” * 

“ Yes ; it will prove a sovereign 
remedy for your complaint, Monsei- 
gneur.” 

Bussy dressed himself. 
u My hat and sword,” said he. 

He put on the one, and girt the 
other about him. Then both went out. 


CHAPTER IV.- 

ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUS- 
SIENNE. 

Remy, after securing his patient un- 
der his arm, turned to the left, and 
took the Rue Coquilliere, which he 
followed as far as the rampart. 

“This is strange!” said Bussy. 
“ You are taking me in the direction 
of the marshes of La Grange-Bate- 


liere — do you pretend that the air is 
healthy in that quarter ?” 

“ Oh, sir,” said Remy, “ a little 
patience ! W e are now going to turn 
round the Rue Pagevin : we will leave 
the Rue Breneuse on our left, and 
we shall presently find ourselves in 
the Rue Montmartre. You will see 
what a fine street the Rue Montmar- 
tre is !” 

“ Do you suppose that I do not 
know it ?” 

“ Well, if you know it, so much 
the better ! There will be no need 
to lose time in pointing out its beau- 
ties to you, and I shall lead you to a 
charming little street. Come on — 
trust to me.” 

Accordingly, after leaving the 
Porte Montmartre on their left, and 
making about two hundred paces up 
the street, Remy turned to the right. 

“ Come now, you are doing it on 
purpose,” cried Bussy. “ We are 
returning to the very point from which 
we started.” 

“This,” said Remy, “ is the Rue 
de laGypecienne, ou de l’Egyptienne, 
as you please ; a street which the 
people are already beginning to call 
the Rue de la Gyssienne, and which, 
before long, they will end by calling 
the Rue de la Jussienne, and because 
the genius of languages tends always, 
as we approach the south, to multiply 
the vowels. You must be aware of 
that, Monseigneur, you who have 
been.in Poland. Are not the barba- 
rians still*hammering away at four 
consonants in succession, for which 
reason they seem, when they speak, 
to be grinding pebbles, and to b& 
swearing as they perform the opera- 
tion.” 

“Very true,” said Bussy, “ but as 
I take it for granted that we have not 
come here to discourse grammar and 
such like, let me again ask you, where 
we are going r” 

“ See you that small church yon- ^ 
der ?” said Remy, without otherwise 
answering Bussy’s question. “ Heigh, 
sir, how proudly it stands with its 
front facing on the street, and its 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


257 


archways overhanging the convent 
garden ! I would wager that you 
have never noticed it until to- 
day ?” 

“ In sooth,” said Bussy, “ I was 
ignorant of its existence.” 

Bussy was not the only great lord 
who had never entered this church of 
Saint Marie PEgyptienne ; a church 
of a wholly popular character, and 
known also to the faithful who fre- 
quented it by the name of Ckapelle 
Quoqheron. 

“ Well,” said Bussy , u now that you 
know the name offithe church, Mon- 
seigneur, and that you have suffi- 
ciently examined its exterior, let us 
enter and look at the painted win- 
dows of the nave. They are exceed- 
ingly curious.” 

As Remy spoke, Bussy saw a 
pleasing smile flit across his counte- 
nance, and he accordingly understood 
that the young chirurgeon, in invit- 
ing him to enter the church, had in 
view some other object beside showing 
him paintings which could not be seen, 
inasmuch as it was night. 

The interior of the church was 
lighted up for the office of the bene- 
diction, and, if the windowshforesaid 
could not be seen, there were other 
objects of interest that were plainly 
visible. Such were the artless paint- 
ings of the sixteenth century, of which 
Italy, thanks to her fine climate, still 
retains a large number, while in 
France, humidity and Y andalism 
have each, in its way, effaced from 
our walls those traditions of an age 
gone past, and those evidences of a 
faith that has ceased to exist. 

To return, the artist had painted 
in fresco for Francis, and by that 
Kind’s orders, the life of Sainte Ma- 
lie de PEgyptienne. Now, among 
the most interesting subjects of her 
life, the painter, with artless simpli- 
city and adherence to truth, histori- 
cal if not anatomical, had, in the most 
prominent part of the chapel, depict- 
ed that delicate incident when Sainte- 
Marie, having no money to pay the 


ferryman, offered herself as an equi- 
valent for the price of her passage. 

To be sure, it is but right to men- 
tion that, despite the veneration of 
the faithful for Marie, the converted 
Egyptian, many honest women of the 
neighborhood were of opinion that 
the painter might have omitted that 
incident, or, at least, have handled 
it with less fidelity ; and the reason 
they assigned, or, rather, that they 
did not assign, was, that certain de- 
tails of the fresco were too apt to di- 
vert the attention of the young ap- 
prentices, when taken to the church 
on Sundays and festivals by their 
masters the drapers. 

Bussy looked at Le Hauduoin, who, 
for an instant, transformed into an 
apprentice, was examining the paint- 
ing very attentively. 

u Do you hope,” said he, “ to awa- 
ken in me anacreontic ideas, with 
your chapel and its paintings ? If so, 
you have mistaken your man. You 
should have brought a monk or an 
apprentice.” 

u Heaven forbid !” answered Le 
Haudouin. u Omnis cogitatio libidi - 
nosa cerebrum inftcit .” 
u Remy — Remy !” 
u Hear me. A man cannot keep 
his eyes shut, because he happens to 
be in a church.” 

“ Come — you have had some other 
object in view in bringing me here 
beside showing me Sainte — Marie P 
Egyptienne — what was it ?” 

“ P faith, no !” said Remy. 

“Well, I have seen — so let us 
go !” 

“ Have a little patience ; the ser- 
vice is almost over. By going out 
now, we should disturb the congre- 
gation.” 

And Le Haudouin held back Bussy 
gently by the arm. 

u Now everybody is going away,” 
said Remy. “ Let us do as others 
do, if you please.” 

Obviously abstracted and indiffer- 
ent, Bussy directed his steps toward 
the door. 


258 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u What !” said Le Haudouin, 
u are you going out without taking 
holy-water ? Wliat the deuce has got 
into your head ?” 

Bussy, submissive as a child, turned 
toward the pillar to which the holy- 
water-vase was attached. 

Le Haudouin availed himself of 
this movement to make a sign of in- 
telligence to a young woman, who 
hastened to post herself close by the 
pillar toward which Bussy was mov- 
ing. 

The result of that little by-play 
was, that at the moment the Count 
extended his hand toward the holy- 
water-vase — which was shaped like a 
shell, and supported by two Egypti- 
ans of black marble — another hand, 
rather large and rather red, but which 
was nevertheless a woman’s hand, 
reached across his and dipped into 
the lustral water. 

Bussy glanced mechanically from 
the large and red hand to’ the face of 
the owner ; but no sooner had he 
done so than he started back, and 
suddenly changed color, for he just 
then recognized Gertrude, half con- 
cealed by a black woollen veil. 

He stood with his arm extended, 
and for«;ettin£ to make the sign of 
the cross, while Gertrude’s tall figure 
disappeared under the porch of the 
chapel. 

Two paces behind Gertrude, whose 
robust elbows were clearing the way, 
walked a lady carefully wrapped in a 
silken mantalet — a lady whose lovely 
and youthful form — whose charming 
foot and sweet air, suggested to Bussy 
the idea that she had not her equal in 
the world. 

There needed now no explanation 
from Remy, who consequently con- 
tented himself with the part of a 
looke'r-on. It was quite clear to 
Bussy why the young leech had 
brought him to the Rue de la Gype- 
cienne, and why he had made him 
enter the church. 

Bussy followed the lady, and Le 
Haudouin followed Bussy. 

It would have been amusing to 


mark this procession of four persona 
following each other at equal dis- 
tances, if the sad and pallid counte- 
nances of two of the party did not in- 
dicate great suffering. 

Gertrude still keeping the lead, 
turned the corner of the Rue Mont- 
martre, proceeded up the latter street 
a fow paces, and then suddenly turned 
into a narrow lane, without issue at 
the other end, upon which there 
opened a door. 

Bussy paused. 

u Well ! Monsieur le Comte,” 
muttered Remy, u do you want mo 
to tread upon your heels r ,? 

Bussy moved onward. 

Gertrude, still keeping the advance, 
drew a key from her pocket and 
opened the door for her mistress, who 
passed through without turning her 
head. 

Le Haudouin, after saying two 
words to the maid, stood aside and 
allowed Bussy to pass ; then, Ger- 
trude and himself entered, shoulder 
to shoulder, and the lane resumed 
its deserted appearance. 

It was half past seven in the evening, 
and the month of May was drawing 
nigh. Banned by the soft air which 
indicated the advancing spring, the 
flowers were beginning to burst their 
buds. 

Bussy looked about him : he found 
himself in a small garden, covering 
some fifty square feet, surrounded by 
very high walls, from the top of which 
the sprouting shoots of the ivy and 
the creeper would cause from time to 
time small particles of mortar to 
crumble, and. impregnated the air 
with the strong and pungent perfume 
extracted from their leaves by the 
fresh evening breeze. 

Long wall flowers, gaily spreading 
from the chinks in the stone-work of 
the old church, were unfolding their 
red blossoms of the purest tints. 

Lastly, early lilacs which had 
opened with the morning sun, gave 
their sweet and penetrating odors to 
the still wavering brain of the gal- 
lant knight, who asked himself if the 


> 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


fresh impulse of returning life which | 
he felt rushing through his whole 
frame, a little while since so weak 
and helpless, did not solely proceed 
from the presence of that divinity 
he so tenderly worshipped. 

In a bower of jessamine and cle- 
matites, and on a small wooden 
bench resting against the church wall, 
was seated Diana, with downcast 
looks and her arms pendent, motion- 
less, by her side ; bruised between 
her fingers, was a wall-flower, the 
leaves of which she was unwittingly 
scattering on the sand at her feet. 

At that moment, a nightingale, hid- 
den in the branches of a neighboring 
chestnut-tree, commenced its long and 
melancholy chant, interrupted from 
time to time by notes brilliant as the 
flashing meteor. 

Remy and Gertrude were out of 
sight, Bussy was alone in that garden 
with Madame de Monsoreau ; he ap- 
proached her, and Diana raised her 
head. 

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said she, 

• anything like evasion would be un- 
worthy of us. If you met me just 
now at the Church of Saint e -Marie 
l’Egyptienne, it was not chance that 
led you thither ?” 

“ No, Madame,” said Bussy, “ it 
was Le Haudouin who made me come 
forth without telling me for what 
purpose, and I swear that I know 
not — ” 

u You mistake the meaning of my 
words, sir,” said Diana, with an air 
of sadness. “ Yes, I know that it 
was Monsieur Remy who brought 
you to the church, and against your 
will, perhaps.” 

u Madame,” said Bussy, “ it was 
not against my will. Indeed, I knew 
not w T hom 1 was to see there.” 

u Your language is harsh, Monsieur 
le Comte,” murmured Diana, shak- 
ing her head, and looking up at Bussy 
with a glistening eye. “Is it your 
intention to give me to understand 
that if you had known Remy’s pur- 
pose, you would not have accompa- 
nied him?” 


“ Oh, Madame !” 

“ It would have been just and 
natural, sir. You have rendered me 
a signal service, and I have not aa 
yet thanked you as you deserve. 
Pardon my neglect, and accept now 
my grateful acknowledgments.” 

“ Madame — ” 

Bussy stopped ; he was so bewil- 
dered that he had neither words nor 
ideas at his command. 

“ But I have been anxious to prove 
to you,” resumed Diana, with in,r 
creasing animation, “ that I am mot 
an ungrateful woman, a woman with 
a forgetful heart. It was I who re- 
quested Monsieur Remy to procure for 
me the honor of this interview, it was 
I who appointed this place of meet- 
ing. Pardon me, if I have displeased 
you.” 

Bussy pressed his hand upon his 
heart. 

“ Oh, Madame,” said he, “you do 
not think so.” 

Light began to dawn upon that 
poor broken heart, and it seemed to 
him as though the soft evening breeze, 
laden with perfumes and tender 
words, removed at the same time a 
film from before his eyes. 

“ I know, 5 ’ continued Diana, who 
was the stronger of the two, for she 
had been long preparing herself for 
this interview, “ I know what it cost 
you to execute my commission. I 
know all your delicacy; I know you, 
and appreciate you, believe me. 
Judge, then, of the pain it must have 
given me to think that you misunder- 
stood the sentiments of my heart !” 

“ Madame,” said Bussy, “ for 
three days past I have been ser 
ill.” 

“ Yes, I know that,” said Diana, 
whose heightened color betrayed the 
interest she felt in the count’s ill- 
ness, “ and I suffered more than you 
did, for Monsieur Remy, — he was 
deceiving me, no doubt — Monsieur 
Remy allowed me to believe — ” 

“ That your neglect was the occa- 
sion of my sufferings. Oh, it wa? 
true P 



260 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Then, it was my duty, count, to 
do what I have done,” resumed Ma- 
dame de Monsoreau. u I see you, I 
thank you for ypur obliging solicitude 
in my behalf, and I assure you of my 
eternal gratitude. Now, believe me 
that I speak from the bottom of my 
heart.” 

Bussy shook his head sorrowfully, 
and made no answer. 

u Do you doubt my sincerity ?” re- 
sumed Diana. 

u Madame,” replied Bussy, u peo- 
ple who really feel friendship for 
another, manifest it whenever they 
have an opportunity ; you knew that 
I was at the palace the evening you 
were presented ; you knew that 
I was there standing before you, you 
must have felt the weight on your 
person of my mournful looks, and yet 
you did not once raise your eyes to- 
wards me ; you did not make me un- 
derstand by a word, by a sign, by the 
slightest gesture, that you knew that 
I was there. But, after all, Madame, 
perhaps I am wrong ; perhaps you 
did not recognize me, you had only 
seen me twice.” 

Diana replied by a look of such 
mournful reproach, that it moved 
Bussy to the very depths of his 
heart. 

u Pardon me, Madame, pardon 
me,” resumed Bussy, a you are not 
like the rest of women, and yet you 
have acted like an ordinary woman — 
this marriage !” 

u Do you not know how I was 
forced into it ?” 

u Yes, but it was easy to break.” 

u On the contrary, it was impossi- 
ble.” 

u Did nothing inform you that near 
vou watched a being devoted, to your 
service ?” 

u It was that, especially, that ter- 
rified me.” 

u And to such considerations you 
have sacrificed me ? Oh, bethink 
yourself of what my life has become 
since you have irrevocably bestowed 
yourself on another !” 

u Sir ” said the oountess, with 


dignity, u a woman may not change 
her name without great damage to 
her honor, when two men live, one of 
whom bears the name she has left, 
and the other the name she has 
taken.” 

u Meantime yon have kept tho 
name of Monsoreau from choice.” 
u You ’think so,” faltered Diana, 
u so much the better !” 

And her eyes filled with tears. 
Bussy, who saw her head again fall 
on her bosom, commenced walking up 
and down in an agitated manner, in 
front of her. 

u In short, Madame,” said he, U I 
may now resume my former position 
toward you, that is to say, the posi- 
tion of a mere stranger.” 
u Alas !” ejaculated Diana. 
u Your silence speaks for itself.” 
u I cannot speak otherwise than 
by my silence.” 

u Your silence, Madame, is a fit- 
ting sequel to your treatment of me 
at the Louvre ; you did not see me, 
and here you do not speak to me.” 
u At the Louvre, I was in Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau’ s presence — Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau was watching me, 
and he is jealous.” 

u Jealous ! What then does he 
ask for, Mon Dieu ! Whose happi- 
ness can he envy, when all the world 
envy him his happiness ?” 

u I tell you, sir, that he is jealous : 
for some days past he has seen some 
one prowling about our new dwell- 
lug.” 

“You have left, then, your resi- 
dence in the Rue Saint-Antoine r” 

“ What,” cried Diana, not think- 
ing of the bearing of her words ; 
u you were hot the man 


u Madame, sir ' ic an- 
nouncement of yo -since 

the evening you we it the 

. Louvre, when you nde- 


scend to look at mi ' my 

bed — I have had fe >een 

in a dving state. it 

cannot be of me, at >ur 

husband is jealous, * \ot 

h&ve seen me about hi 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


261 


44 Well, Monsieur le Comte, if it 
be as you say, that you felt some de- 
sire to see me, you may thank this 
unknown person ; for knowing Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau as I know him, I 
trembled on your account, a;id wished 
to see you if only to say to you, 4 Do 
not thus expose yourself, Monsieur le 
Comte — do not render me more un- 
happy than I am already.’ ” 

44 Re-assure yourself, Madame : I 
am not the person.” 

44 Let me now finish all that I had 
so say. Fearing this man, whom we 
do not know, but who is probably 
known to Monsieur de Monsoreau — 
fearing this man, my husband required 
me to leave Paris; so that,” added 
Diana, putting out her hand to Bussy, 
44 so that, sir, you may consider this 
as our last interview — to-morrow I 
start for Mcridor.” 

44 You are going away, Madame !” 
cried Bussy. 

44 It is the only way to reassure 
Monsieur de Monsoreau,” said Diana, 
44 it is the only way to recover my 
own peace and tranquillity. Beside, 
for my part, 1 detest Paris — I detest 
the world, the court, and the Louvre. 
I shall be glad to find myself alone 
with my youthful reminiscences : it 

seems to me that there is yet some 
happiness in store for me, in review- 
ing the years that have gone past. 
Monsieur de Meridor accompanies 
me. I shall find in the country Mon- 
sieur and Madame Saint-Luc, who re- 
gret the loss of my society. Fare- 
well, Monsieur de Bussy !’’ 

Bussy hid his face in his two hands. 
44 I see,” murmured he, 44 that all 
is over for me.” 

44 What do you say ?” cried Diana, 
as she rose to her feet. 

44 I say, Madame, that the man 
who exiles you — who deprives me of 
the only hope 1 had left, that is to 
say, the hope of being permitted to 
breathe the same air as yourself — to 
catch an occasional glimpse of your 
person — perchance at times to hear 
the sound of your voice — in a word, 
to worship a living reality, and not a 


shadow — I say that he constitutes my 
mortal enemy, and that were I to per- 
ish in the attempt, he shall fall by my 
hands.” 

44 Oh, Monsieur le Comte !” 

44 The wretch !” cried Bussy. 
44 What, is it not enough that he 
should possess you as his wife — you, 
the purest and loveliest of created 
beings — but he must also be jealous I 
Jealous ! Ridiculous, and extravagant 
monster, would he, then, possess the 
universe !” 

44 Oh, be calm, count — be calm, 
Mordieu ; he is perhaps excusable.” 

44 He is excusable ! And do you, 
then, take his part, Madame ?” 

44 Oh, if you only knew !” said Di- 
ana, covering her face with her hands, 
as though she feared that, notwith- 
standing the darkness, Bussy might 
see the red blood that tinged her 
cheeks and forehead. 

44 If I only knew !” repeated Bussy. 
44 Eh, Madame, I know one thing, 
that when a man is your husband, he 
has no business to think of the rest 
of the world?” 

44 But,” faltered Diana, in a hol- 
low, yet earnest voice, 44 if you were 
mistaken,. Monsieur le Comte — if he 
were not” — 

And the countess, as she uttered 
these words, touched with her cold 
hand Bussy ’s burning hands, and then, 
fled, gliding like a shadow through the 
pathways of the little garden. She 
disappeared before the delighted Bus- 
sy, in the perturbation of his joy, 
could stretch out his arm to detain 
her. 

He uttered one cry, and staggered 
forward. 

Remy arrived just in time to re- 
ceive him in his arms, and place him 
on the ibench which had been occupied 
by Diana. 


m 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


CHAPTER V. 

m 

how d’epernon had his doublet 

TORN, AND HOW SCHOMBERG WAS 

PAINTED BLUE. 

While Master la Huriere was heap- 
ing up signatures, while Chicot was 
depositing Gorenflot at the Come 
d’Abondance, while Bussy was com-: 
ing again to life in that blissful little 
garden, so full of perfumes, song and 
love, Henry, rendered moody and sul- 
len by all that he had seen ir* the 
city, exasperated by the preachings 
he had heard in the churches, and furi- 
ous at the mysterious greetings be- 
stowed upon his brother of Anjou — 
whom he had seen pass before him in 
the Rue Saint-Honore, accompanied 
by Monsieur de Guise and Monsieur 
de Mayenne, with a whole suite of 
gentlemen, v<ho seemed to be under 
the command of Monsieur de Monso- 
reau — Henry, we say, had returned to 
the Louvre with his remaining attend- 
ants, Maugiron and Quelus. 

The King, according to his custom, 
had gone out, attended by his four 
friends : but, when only a few yards 
from the Louvre, Schomberg and 
D’Epernon, tired of Henry’s gloomy 
looks, and hoping, amid the stir and 
confusion, to come across some pleas- 
ant adventures — Schomberg and 
D’Epernon had availed themselves of 
the very first opportunity, created by 
the jostling of the crowd, to disappear 
at the corner of the Rue de l’Astruce, 
and while the king and his two friends 
pursued their way by the quay, they 
wandered down the Rue d’Orleans. 

The latter soon found the employ- 
ment they were in search of. D’Eper- 
non had slipped his sarbacand between 
the legs of a citizen who was hurry- 
ing past, and who was sent rolling 
some fifteen yards down the street, 
while Schomberg had snatched off the 
coif of a woman whom he had taken 
to be old and ugly, and who turned 
out to be, as fortune would have it, 
young and pretty. 

But both had ill chosen their day 


for meddling with the honest Pari- 
sians, usually so enduring : the streets 
were rife with that spirit of revolt, 
which sometimes beats its wings with- 
in the walls of large capitals : as 
soon as the citizen rose to his legs, he 
cried — u Au Parpaillot!” or, u Down 
with the heretic !” He was known 
to be a zealot, and was believed : the 
people rushed on D’Epernon. The 
woman who had been uncoifed, 
screamed — u Au Mignon !” which 
was still worse ; and her husband, 
who was a dyer, started his appren- 
tices at Schomberg. 

Schomberg was brave : he stood his 
ground, talked big and drew his sword. 

D’Epernon was prudent, he took to 
his heels. 

Meanwhile, Henry entertained no 
fears for his minions ; he knew them 
both to he in the habit of getting out 
of scrapes ; — the one, thanks to his 
legs, the other, thanks to his good 
arm : he had, therefore, made his 
round, and when that was ended, had, 
as has been mentioned, returned to 
the Louvre. 

He was now in his cabinet, or pri- 
vate armory, and there, seated in his 
large arm-chair, he was quivering 
with impatience, and looking out for 
some cause of quarrel. 

Maugiron was playing with Nar- 
cisse, the king’s large greyhound. 

Quelus, with his checks leaning on 
his clenched hands, sat squatting on 
a cushion, and gazing at Henry. 

u They are getting on, they are 
getting on,” said the King — u their 
plot is coming to a point — tigers and 
serpents by turns, when they cannot 
spring, they crawl.” 

u Hey, Sire,” said Quelus, “ are 
there not always plots in a kingdom ? 
What the deuce would you have tha 
sons of kino;s and the cousins of knurs 
do, if they could not conspire r” 
u Look you here, Quelus ! Really, 
with your absurd maxims, and your 
fat, puffed-up cheeks, you strike me 
as being about as profound in matters 
of state policy as the clown that ex 
i hibits at the fair of Saint-Laurent.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. . 


263 


Quelus wheeled round his cushion, 
and irreverently turned his back to 
the King. 

“ I say, Maugiron,” resumed Henry, 
u am 1 not right, mordieu ! Is it fit- 
tins: that I should be fooled with such 

u 

twaddle, as though I were an ordinary 
king:-, or a wool merchant, fearful of 
losing: his favorite cat ?” 

u Hey, Sire,” said Maugiron, who 
made it a point never to differ from 
Quelus, u if you are not an ordinary 
king, prove that you are not, by act- 
ing like a great king. Que Diable ! 
Here is Narcisse ; he is a good dog — 
a quiet dog ; but, if you pull him by 
the ear, and he growls — tread on his 
paw, and he bites.” 

u I like that,” said Henry — u Here 
is the other compeer, comparing me 
to my dog !” 

u By no means, Sire,” rejoined 
Maugiron. u Remark well, that, on 
the contrary, I rate Narcisse much 
higher than I do you, simply because 
Narcisse knows how to defend himself, 
and that your Majesty does not.” 

And Maugiron turned his back to 
the King. 

Thus, I am left all alone,” said 
Henry : u right well, my most excel- 
lent friends, for whom 1 am reproach- 
ed for having dilapidated my king- 
dom ! Forsake me, insult me, kill 
me ! You are fitting instruments ; 
for you, the only persons I could ap- 
peal to, are the cruellest of men. Oh, 
Chicot — my poor Chicot, where are 
you !” 

“ Well done,” said Quelus — u the 
finishing stroke ! Here, he is calling 
on Chicot ! ! 

u It is not to be wondered at,” said 
Maugiron. 

Afid the insolent youth began to 
mutter between his teeth a certain 
Latin proverb, which may be rendered 
— Birds of a feather flock together. 

Henry knit his brow — his large 
black eyes flashed with anger, and 
this time, certainly, it was a royal 
look which the prince bestowed upon 
bis friends. 

But, doubtless exhausted by this 


velleity of anger, Henry fell bf,ek in 
his chair and rubbed the ears of one 
of the little canine favorites, lying 
in the cradle by his side. 

At this moment, a hasty step was 
heard passing through the antecham- 
bers, and D’Epernon made his ap- 
pearance without cap or cloak, and 
with his doublet in tatters. 

Quelus and Maugiron turned round, 
and Narcisse greeted the new comer 
with his teeth, as though he only 
knew the King’s courtiers by their 
garments. 

u Jesus-Dieu /” cried Henry, 
u what has happened ?” 

u Sire,” answered D’Epernon, 
u look at me ; in this fashion are 
your Majesty’s friends treated ?” 
u Who has treated you thus ?” 
asked the King. 

“ Mordieu, your people, or rather 
the people of my lord the Duke of 
Anjou ! The people who cry hurrah 
for the League, for the mass, for 
Guise, for Francis, in fine for every- 
thing, and every person, except your- 
self.” 

u What did you do, to make the 
people treat you thus r” 

u I ? Nothing. What would you 
have a man do to a whole people ? I 
was recognized as one of your Majes- 
ty’s friends, and that was quite 
enough !’’ 

u But, Schomberg ?’’ 
u Well, Schomberg ?” 
u Did not Schomberg come to your 
assistance ? Did not Schomberg take 
your part ?” 

u Corboe.vf! Schomberg had enough 
to do on his own account !” 
u Explain.” 

u Easily. I left him in the hands 
of a dyer whose wife he had ruffled a 
little, and who, with his four or five 
apprentices, were busily employed in 
giving him a pleasant time of it.” 
u Par la Mordieu /” cried the King. 
u Where have you left my poor 
Schomberg,” said Henry, rising. u I 
shall go myself to his assistance. 
Though it may be said,’’ added Hen- 
ry. looking at Maugiron and Quelus, 


264 


DIANA OF MERIDOR. 


“ that my friends have forsaken me, 
it shall not be said that I have for- 
saken my friends.” 

“ Thanks, Sire,” said a voice be- 
hind Henry, “ thanks, here lam, Gott 
ver damme mich ! I have got clear all 
alone, but it was no easy matter.’’ 

“ Ho, Schomberg ! That is Schom- 
berg’s voice,” cried the three minions, 
“ but, where the deuce are you 

“ Pardieu , where am I ? You can 
see well enough where I am,” 
answered the same voice. 

And now, the King and the mi- 
nions saw approaching from the dark 
part of the room, not a man but a 
shadow. 

“ Schomberg !” cried the King, 
“ whence come you, and why are you 
of such a color ?” 

In truth, Schomberg, from his head 
to his feet, without excepting any 
part of his dress, was all blue, an in- 
digo blue, finer than which none 
could be seen. 

“ Per Teufel /” cried he. “ The 
scoundrels ! Little wonder the peo- 
ple should run after me.” 

“ What has happened ?” asked 
Henry. “ If thou wert yellow, I 
could understand it, for fear might 
produce it ; but blue !” 

“ This has happened — the rascals 
dipped me in a tub ; I thought that 
they had dipped me merely in a tub 
of water, but it seems that it was a 
tub of indigo.” 

“ Oh, Mordieu /” cried Quelus, 
bursting into a laugh. “ Console 
yourself, their sin will bring its own 
punishment ; indigo is a costly arti- 
cle, and you have carried away at 
least twenty crowns’ worth of dye.” 
“You may make it a jesting mat- 
ter, but I should like to have seen 
you in my place.” 

“ Why did you not rip some of the 
knaves?’’ asked Maugiron. 

“ All I can say is, that I have left 
my dagger somewhere, sheathed in 
solid flesh ; but in a second, I was 
hoisted, carried off, dipped in the 
tub, and nearly drowned.” 


“ How did you escape from their 
hands ?” 

“ I had the courage to commit a 
cowardly act, Sire.” 
u What act ?” 

“ I cried — hurrah for the League !” 
“ Just like myself,” said D’Eper- 
n/>n, “ only in my case I was compel- 
led to add— hurrah for the Duke o i 
Anjou !” 

“ And I too,” said Schomberg, 
biting his fingers with rage, “ I cried 
hurrah for the Duke of Anjou ; but 
that was not all.” 

“ What,” said the King, “ did 
they make thee cry anything else? 
Poor Schomberg !” 

“No, they did not make me cry 
anything else, I had enough of that 
as it was, thank God ! But, just as 
I was crying — c Hurrah for the Duke 
of Anjou — ’ ” 

“Well!” 

“ Guess who passed by.” 

“ How can I guess ?” 

“ Bussy, his tool Bussy, who heard 
me cry, hurrah for his master.” 

“ He could not have understood 
what it all meant,” said Quelus. 

“ Parbleu , it was no difficult mat- 
ter to understand what was going on. 
I was in a tub, with a dagger aj my 
throat.” « 

“ What,” said Maugiron, “ and he 
did not run to your assistance ? Be- 
tween gentlemen, it was hrs duty to 
have done so.” 

“ He ! He appeared to have some- 
thing else to think about ; he only 
wanted wings to fly ; as it was, he 
scarcely touched the ground.” 

“ But,” returned Maugiron, “ per- 
haps he did not recognize you :” 

“ I should like to know why ?” 

“ You were dyed blue.” 

“ Ah, true !” said Schomberg 
“ He was quite excusable, under 
the circumstances,” said Henry, “for 
really, my dear Schomberg, I should 
not have recognized thee myself.” 

“ It matters not,” said the young 
noble, who was a thorough Germ a . j , 
“ we shall meet one day or ether else- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


2(15 


where than at the corner of the Rue 
Coquilliere, when I shall not be in a 
tub.” 

44 As for me,” said D’Epernon, 44 it 
is against the master, and not the 
valet, that I have a grudge ; my lord 
the Duke of Anjou is my mark, and 
not Bussy.” 

44 Yes, yes,” said Schomberg, “my 
lord the Duke of Anjou, who would 
first render us ridiculous, and then 
take our lives.” 

“The Duke of Anjou, whose praises 
are ringing through the streets — you 
heard them, Sire,” exclaimed together 
Quelus and Maugiron. 

44 The fact is, that he it is who is 
now lord and master in Paris, and not 
the King. Just show yourself out- 
side,” said D’Epernon to the King, 
44 and see if you will be more respect- 
ed than your friends.” 

44 Ah ! brother, brother !” muttered 
Henry, in a threatening voice. 

44 Oh, yes, Sire ; how often will 
you say, 4 Ah, brother, brother!’ 
without venturing to take a step to re- 
sist his encroachments ?” said Schom- 
berg. 44 And yet, I would take my 
oath that the said brother is, at this 
very moment, plotting against you.” 

u Hey, mordieu /” said Henry, 44 I 
was telling these gentlemen as much 
when you came in, D’Epernon ; but 
they only answered me by shrugging 
their shoulders, and turning their backs 
on me.” 

44 Sire,” said Maugiron, 44 we 
shrugged our shoulders and turned 
our backs, not because you said that 
there was a plot, but because we did 
not see you show any disposition to 
put it down.” 

44 And now,” said Quelus, 44 we 
turn our faces to you, to say again, 
Sire, 4 Save us, Sire, or, rather, save 
yourself, for, if we fall, you fall.’ 
For, to-morrow, Monsieur de Guise 
will be at the Louvre : to-morrow, 
you will appoint the Duke of Anjou ; 
and then, the Duke of Anjou once 
the chmf of the League, that is to 
say, at the head of a hundred thou- 
sand Parisians, excited by the revels 


of to-night, the Duke of Anjou will 
do with you what he likes.” 

44 Bah!” said Henry. 44 And in 
case I should once resolve on action, 
will you second me ?” 

44 Yes, Sire,” replied the young 
nobles, simultaneously. 

44 Provided always, Sire,” said 
D’Epernon, 44 your Majesty will give 
me time to procure another cap, ano- 
ther cloak and another doublet.” 

44 Step to my wardrobe, D’Eper- 
non, and my valet will give you 
everything you want ; we are of the 
same size.” 

44 And provided you will give me 
time to wash' myself.” 

44 Step to my bath-room, Schom- 
berg, and wash yourself.” 

44 Sire,” said Schomberg, 44 we may, 
therefore, trust that these insults will 
not be allowed to go unpunished ?” 
Henry raised his hand to enjoin 
silence, and, bending down his head, 
seemed to reflect profoundly. 

Then, after a pause : 

44 Quelus,” said he, 44 inquire if my 
lord the Duke of Anjou has returned 
to the Louvre.” 

Quelus went on his errand, while 
D’Epernon, Schomberg and the others, 
their zeal re-animated by the immi- 
nence of the danger, awaited impa- 
tiently his return. It is not in the 
tempest but in the calm that sailors 
are recalcitrant. 

44 Sire,” asked Maugiron, 44 then 
your Majesty has made up your 
mind ?” 

44 You shall see,” said the King. 
Quelus returned. 

44 My lord, the duke has not yet re- 
turned,” said he. 

44 It is well,” said the King. 
44 D’Epernon, go and change your 
dress ; Schomberg, go and. change 
your color ; and you, Quelus, and 
you, Maugiron, go down to the yard, 
and keep good watch until my bro- 
ther’s return.” 

44 And when he does return ?” in- 
quired Quelus. 

44 When he returns, you will order 
all the gates to be closed ” 


DXiNA OF MERIT) OR ; OR, 


366 


“ Bravo, Sire !” said Quelus. 

“Sire,” said D’Epernon, “ I shall 
be back in ten minutes.” 

“ As for me, Sire,” said Schom- 
berg, “ I cannot say when I shall be 
back ; much will depend on the quality 
of the dye.” 

u Come as soon as you can,” re- 
plied the King, “ that is all I have to 
say to you.” 

“ But, your Majesty will be left 
alone,” said Maugiron. 

“ No, Maugiron, I shall be left with 
God, whose protection I shall invoke 
for the success of our undertaking.” 

“ Pray well, Sire,” said Quelus, 
“ for 1 almost think that he has an 
understanding with the devil to de- 
stroy us together — in this world as 
well as in the next.” 

“ Amen ”’ said Maugiron. 

The two young nobles appointed to 
watch in the yard went out by one 
door ; the two who had to change 
their dresses, went out by the other. 

The King, when left alone, pros- 
trated himself in prayer. 


CHAPTER VI. 


u He has remained below to guard 
against the duke’s again going forth ” 
“ There is no danger.” 

“ Then,” said Quelus, making a 
movement which signified that it only 
remained for the King to act. 

“ Come — let us allow him to go 
quietly to bed,” said Henry. “ Who 
are with him ?” 

“ Monsieur de Monsoreau, and his 
gentlemen in ordinary.” 

“ And Monsieur de Bussy ?” 

“ Monsieur de Bussy is not with 
him.” 

“ Good !” said the King, to whom 
it was a great relief to learn that his 
brother was deprived of his best 
sword. 

“What are the King’s orders?” 
asked Quelus. 

“ Let D’Epernon and Schomberg 
be directed to make haste, and let 
Monsieur de Monsoreau be informed 
that I would speak with him.” 

Quelus bowed, and executed his or- 
ders with all the dispatch of a man 
impelled by hatred and the lust of 


revenge. 


Five minutes after, D’Epernon and 
Schomberg made their appearance, 
the one with a new suit, the other 
with a clean skin. True, the cavities 
of Schomberg’s face retained a blue 


CHICOT BECOMES MORE AND MORE 

KING OF FRANCE. 

It struck midnight. The gates of 
the Louvre were usually closed at 
midnight, but Henry had wisely cal- 
culated that it would be the desire 
of the Duke of Anjou to sleep that 
night at the Louvre, were it only to 
disarm the suspicions which the tu- 
mult in the city might have raised in 
the King's mind. 

The King had consequently order- 
ed the gates to be kept open until one 
o’clock. 

At a quarter past midnight Quelus 
stood before the King. 

“ Sire,” said he, “the duke has 
returned.” 

“ Where is Maugiron ?” 

O 


tinge, and it was the opinion of the 
official at the royal bagnio that it 
would require time and repeated ab- 
lutions to remove it. 

After the two minions, Monsieur 

* 

; de Monsoreau appeared. 

“The captain of your Majesty’s 
guard has just conveyed to me your 
Majesty’s orders to hasten to your 
Majesty’s presence,” said the Grand 
Huntsman, bowing. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Henry, “ yes the 
stars are bright, and the moon un- 
clouded : the weather promises to be 
fair and favorable for the chase : it is 
! scarcely midnight, Monsieur le 
Comte: you will, therefore, start in- 
stantly for Vincennes, and harbor me 
a stag. To-morrow we will give him 
chase.” 

u But, Sire,” said Monsoreau 


u * 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


267 


thought that your Majesty had 
graciously condescended to agree with 
my lord of Anjou and Monsieur de 
Guise, that you would to-morrow ap- 
point the chief of the League.” 
u Well, sir, what then?” said the 
King in a haughty tone of voice, which 
admitted of no reply. 

u Sire — perhaps — there will be no 
time.’’ 

u There will be ample time, Mon- 
sieur le Grand-Veneur, if you employ 
it well ; and I tell you, that you can 
make all the necessary arrangements 
provided you start immediately. 
You can harbor the stag to-night, and 
you will have time to have the equi- 
pages ready by ten o’clock to-morrow. 
A ou will, therefore, start instantly ! 
Quelus and Schomberg, order the 
Louvre gate to be opened for Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau, in my name — in 
the King’s name, and again — in the 
King’s name — let the gate be closed 
as soon as he is outside of it.’’ 

The Grand Huntsman withdrew 
from the royal presence, astonished 
and bewildered. 

u This is one of his Majesty’s 
whims,” he remarked to the two 
young nobles, as soon as he was in 
the antechamber. 

“ Probably,” was the laconic reply. 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, seeing 
that there was nothing to be extract- 
ed from his companions, dropped the 
subject. 

u Ho, ho !” he muttered to himself, 
as he cast a glance toward the apart- 
ments occupied by the Duke of An- 
jou, u it strikes me that there is 
something in the wind, which bodes 
no good to his Royal Highness.” 

But no opportunity was offered of 
giving the alarm to the prince. Que- 
lus and Schomberg took up positions, 
the one on the left, and the other on 
the right of the Grand Huntsman. 

•At one moment he thought the mi- 
nions had special orders to hold him as 
a prisoner, and it was not until he 
found himself outside of the Louvre, 
and until he heard the gates close 
behind him, that he became convinc- 


ed that his apprehensions were un- 
founded. 

At the expiration of ten minutes, 
Quelus and Schomberg had returned 
to make their report to the King. 

u Now,” said Henry, u silence, and 
let all four of you follow me.” 

u Where are we going ?” inquired 
the ever cautious D’Epernon. 

u They who come shall see,” said 
the King. 

u Forward !” cried the minions, 
with one voice. 

Having made sure of their swords, 
and clasped their cloaks, Quelus, 
Schomberg, Maugiron, and D’Eper- 
non, followed the King, who, bear- 
ing in his hand a lantern, led them 
through the secret passage with which 
we are already acquainted, as the one 
the Queen-mother and Charles IX 
were in the habit of using when they 
visited their daughter and sister, that 
good Queen Margot, whose apart- 
ments, it has been mentioned, were 
now occupied by the Duke of Anjou. 

A valet de chambre watched in this 
passage, but before he had time to 
fall back and warn his master, King 
Henry seized him by the arm, and 
ordering him to be silent, pushed him 
toward his companions, who immedi- 
ately locked him up in an adjoining* 
closet. 

Thus, it was the King himself, who 
turned the handle of the bed-cham- 
ber of my lord the Duke of Anjou. 

The duke had just retired to rest, 
lulled by the ambitious dreams to 
which the various incidents of the 
evening gave rise. He had heard his 
own name extolled, and that of the 
King insulted ; led by the Duke of 
Guise, he had seen the people of Paris 
make way for him and his gentlemen, 
while the King’s gentlemen had been 
hooted and pelted. Never, until now, 
from the commencement of his long 
career of underhand dealings, of timid 
plotting and dark intrigue, had he 
been so advanced in popularity, and, 
consequently, in hope. 

He had laid on the table a letter 
from the Duke of Guise, handed to him 


268 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


by Monsieur de Monsoreau, who had, 
at the same time, reminded him, by 
the duke’s order, not to fail to be 
present on the morrow at the King’s 
levee. 

The Duke of Anjou had no need to 
be reminded of what he deemed to be 
his interest ; well resolved was he not 
to be absent in the crowning hour of 
triumph. 

Great was his surprise when he saw 
the door of the secret passage open, 
but what words can describe his ter- 
ror when he saw that his untimely 
visitor was the King ! 

Henry made a sign to his compa- 
nions to remain outside of the door, 
and then advanced toward his bro- 
ther’s bed, grave, with his eyebrows 
knit, and without uttering a word. 

u Sire,” stammered the duke, u this 
honor is so unexpected — ” 

u That it alarms you — does it not ?” 
Bald the King. u I can understand 
that ; but, no — remain as you are, 
brother — do not rise.’’ 

u But, Sire — allow me,” said the 
trembling duke, as he endeavored to 
draw to him the Duke of Guise’s let- 
ter’ 

u You were reading ?” asked the 

O 

King. % 

“ Yes, Sire.” 

li Something interesting, without 
doubt, since it has kept you awake 
until this hour of the night ?” 

u Oh, Sire,” replied the duke, with 
a forced smile, u nothing very impor- 
tant — onlv the evening news-letter.” 
u Yes,” rejoined Henry, u I under- 
stand — the evening news-letter — Cu- 
pid’s dispatch ; but, no, I am wrong 
— notes that are forwarded by Iris or 
Mercury, have not usually seals of that 
size.” 

The duke hid the whole letter. 
u How discreet this dear Francis 
is,” said the King, laughing and grind- 

7 O' CT O O 

ing his teeth in a way that struck ter- 
ror to his brother’s heart. 

Nevertheless, he made an effort to 
put on a good countenance. 

46 Has your Majesty anything par- 
ticular to say to me ?” asked the duke, 


who just then became aware that the 
King’s friends were at the door. 
What else was he to conclude, but 
that they were brought there to wit- 
ness a scene that would be particular- 
ly pleasing to them ! 

u The particular thing I have to 
say to you, Monsieur ,” said the King, 
laying a stress on the last word, which 
according to the ceremonial of France, 
is the proper designation of the King’s 
brother, “ you will be pleased, on the 
present occasion, to hear before wit- 
nesses. Ho, there, gentlemen,” add- 
ed he, turning round to the young 
nobles, u listen well ! You have the 
King’s permission.” 

The duke raised his head. 
u Sire,” said he, with that look full 
of hatred and venom, which man 
sometimes borrows from the snake, 
u before insulting a man of my rank, 
you should have refused me the hos- 
pitality of your palace ; in the hotel 
d’Anjou, at least, it would have been 
in my power to answer you.” 

u Truly,” said Henry, with terrible 
irony, u you seem to forget, that 
wherever you are, you are still my 
subject, and that my subject, even in 
his own house, is still in my house, 
for, God be thanked, I am King — the 
Sovereign — ” 

u Sire,” cried Francis, u I am here 
at the Louvre — under my mother’s 
roof.” 

u And your mother is under mine,” 
rejoined Henry. u Come, let us have 
done with this, Monsieur ; give me 
that paper.” 
u What paper 

u That which vou were reading 

C/ 

parbleu ! That which was open on 
your table, and which you hid as soon 
as you saw me.” 

u Sire, reflect !” said the duke. 
u On what ?” asked the King. 
u On this : that you are making a 
demand unworthy of a gentleman, but 
quite suitable to a police officer.” 

The King turned deadly pale 
u The letter, sir !” said he. 
u It is from a woman, Sire — re- 
flect,’’ said Francis. 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


269 


“ There are women’s letters which 
it is good to read — dangerous not to 
read — our mother’s, foV instance.” 
u Brother !” said Francis. 
u That letter, sir,” cried the King, 
stamping his foot, “ or I will have it 
wrested from you by four of my 
Suisses.” 

The duke jumped from his bed, 
holding the letter crushed in his hand, 
with the manifest intention of reach- 
ing the fire-place, and burning it. 

u You would do that,” said he, 
u to your brother !” 

Henry saw his intention, and 
placed himself between him and the 
fire-place. 

u Not to my brother,” said he, 
(,L but to my mortal enemy! Not to 
my brother, but to the Duke of Anjou, 
who has been running after Mons. de 
Guise all the evening through the 
streets of Paris ! To the Duke of 
Anjou, who is now attempting to hide 
from me a letter written by some one 
of his confederates, the Lorraine 
Princes.” 

“ This time,” said the duke, u your 
police lias been badly advised.” 
u I tell you that I saw on the seal 
the three famous merlettes of Lor- 
raine who make pretence to swallow 
the lilies of France. Give me, there- 
fore, the letter, Mordieu ! Give, or — ” 
Henry made a step toward the 
duke and placed his hand on his 
shoulder. 

Francis no sooner felt the weight 
of the royal hand, no sooner did he 
glance at the menacing attitude of 
the four minions who were beginning 

o o 


to draw, than he dropped on his 
knees with his body leaning over 
against his bed, and shrieked : 

u Help ! help ! — to the rescue — my 
brother seeks my life.” 

These words, expressive of the pro- 
found terror of the speaker, fell pain- 
fully on the King’s ear, and appeased 
his anger, and that because they im- 
plied that it was greater than it was 
in reality. After all, he thought 
that Francis might in truth be afraid 
tf an assassination, of a fratricide ! 


His brain turned as it struck him, 
that in his family — a family accursed 
as are all families in which a race is 
destined to extinction — the tradition 
ran from generation to generation of 
brothers murdered by brothers. 

u No,” said he, u you are mistaken, 
brother, and the King seeks not to in- 
flict on you what you seem to appre- 
hend. You have ventured to grapple 
with the royal authority ; con ess 
that it is too much for you. You knew 
that the King was lawfully sovereign, 
or if you knew it not, you know it 
now. Well, say so, not merely in a 
whisper, but aloud.’ 

u Oh ! I say so, brother ! I pro- 
claim it,” cried the duke. 

u Well, the letter, then — for the 
King commands you to deliver up that 
letter.” 

The Duke of Anjou dropped the 
paper. 

The King pfcked it up, and without 
reading it, committed it to his alms- 
purse. 

u Is that all, Sire ?” said the Duke, 
with one of his sinister looks. 

u No, Monsieur,” said the King, 
you will, in consequence of yourrebel 
lious movements, which fortunately 
have not had disastrous results — you 
will keep your room until my sus- 
picions shall be entirely dispelled. 
You are here at home, the apartments 
are familiar to you, convenient, and 
not too like a prison : remain here. 
You will have good company, on tho 
other side of the door, at least, or 
those four gentlemen will keep guard 
to-night : to-morrow, they will be re- 
lieved by four Suisses.” 

u But, my own personal riends — 
shall I not be permitted to see 
them ?” 

u Whom do you call your riends ?” 
u Monsieur de Monsoreau, for in- 
stance, Monsieur de Ribeirac, Mon- 
sieur Antraguet, Monsieur de Bussy.” 
u Monsieur de Bussy !” 
u Has he been unfortunate enough 
to displease your Majesty ?” 
u Yes,” said the King. 

“ When?” 


270 


DIANA OF MER1DOR; OR, 


“ Always, and to-night especially.” 
“ To-night ! Wliat has he done to- 
night ?” 

“ He caused me to be insulted in 
the streets of Paris.” 

“ You, Sire?” 

“ Yes, me or my friends, which is 
the same thing.” 

“ Bussy caused people to be in- 
sulted to-night in the streets of Paris ! 
You have been imposed upon, Sire.” 
“ I know what I say, Monsieur.” 

“ Sire,” cried the Duke, with a 
triumphant air, “ Monsieur de Bussy 
has not left his hotel for the last two 
days ! He is at home, in bed, sick, 
shaking with fever.” 

The King turned to Schomberg. 

“ If he was shaking: with fever,” 
said Schomberg, “ it was not at home, 
but in the Rue Coquilliere.” 

“ Who has told you,” asked the 
Duke of Anjou, rising to his feet, 
“ that Bussy was in the Rue Coquil- 
liere. ” 

“ I saw him.” 

“ You saw Bussy abroad ?” 

“ Bussy, fresh, active, gay, and ap- 
parently the happiest man in the 
world : he was accompanied by his 
favorite acolyte, that Remy — his 
squire, leech, and what not* ” 

“ 1 cannot make it out,” said the 
duke, all bewildered. “ I saw Mon- 
sieur de Bussy myself, in the course 
of the evening, he was in bed ; he 
must have been imposing on me.” 

“ Be it so,” said the King. “ Mon- 
sieur de Bussy will be punished like 
the rest, as soon as this affair shall be 
inquired into.” 

The duke, who bethought himself 
that, by allowing the King’s anger to 
fall upon Bussy, he might divert it 
from himself, did not further insist 
upon defending him. 

“ If Monsieur de Bussy has acted 
in that manner,” said he — “ if after 
refusing to join me, he went out 
alone, why then I say that he must 
really have had objects in view which 
could not be confided to me, whose 
devotion to your Majesty he is well 
acquainted with.” 


“You hear, gentlemen, what my 
brother asserts,” said the King: 
“ he asserts that Monsieur de Bussy 
acted without his authority.’ 

“ So much the better,” said Schom- 
berg. 

“ Why so much the better?” 

“ Because then, perhaps, your Ma- 
jesty will permit us to deal with him 
as we please.” 

“ Enough, for the present : that is 
a matter for after consideration,” 
said Henry. “ Gentlemen, I recom- 
mend my brother to you : while you 
have the honor of being his guard, 
you will treat him with all the respect 
and consideration due to the first 
prince of the blood, that is to say, 
to the first man in the kingdom after 
myself. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, Sire,” said Quelus, with a 
look which made the duke’s blood 
run cold, “trust to us: we know 
well what we owe to his Highness.” 

“ Sire,” cried the duke, more ter- 
rified by anticipation of what might 
occur in the King’s absence, than he 
had been by his presence, “what, I 
am really a prisoner ! What, my 
friends cannot visit me ! What, I 
am forbidden to go abroad !” 

And he thought of the morrow, 
that morrow when his presence would 
be so necessary during Monsieur de 
Guise’s interview with the King. 

“ Sire,” said the duke, who saw 
that the King was on the point of 
yielding, “ let me at least appear 
near your Majesty — near your royal 
person is my place. I shall be a 
prisoner there as well as elsewhere, 
and better guarded than in any other 
place. Sire, grant me the favor of 
being near your Majesty.” 

The King, who saw no great ob- 
jection to complying with the Duke 
of Anjou’s prayer, would have an- 
swered “yes,” if his attention had 
not been withdrawn from his brother, 
and directed towards the door by a 
long and nimble body, which, with 
arms, legs, head, with every part and 
member that could be put in motion, 
was executing the most negative signs 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


271 


that a body could execute without 
dislocating its bones. 

It was Chicot prompting the an- 
swer — u No.” 

u No,” said Henry to his brother, 
u you are very well where you are, 
Monsieur, and it suits me that you 
should remain here.” 

u Sire,” stammered the duke. 
a That such is the good pleasure 
of the King of France should, it 
seems to me, Monsieur, suffice,” 
added Henry, in a chilling voice, 
which deprived the duke of all hope. 

u When I said that I was the real 
King of France !” murmured Chicot. 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOW CHICOT PAID A VISIT TO BUSSY, 
AND WHAT FOLLOWED THEREFROM. 

On the morrow of that day, or rather 
night, Bussy, about nine o’clock in 
the forenoon, was seated quietly at 
breakfast With Remy, who, in his 
medical capacity, was prescribing 
strengthening nourishment for his pa- 
tient ; their conversation, likewise, 
turned on the events of the preceding 
day, and then Remy would try to 
recal to mind the legends and frescoes 
of the church of Saint-Marie the 
Egyptian. 

u I say, Remy,” suddenly asked 
Bussy, u did you recognize that gen- 
tleman they were dipping in a tub, 
as we passed the corner of the Rue 
Coquilliere ?” 

u Certainly, Monsieur le Comte, 
and I have been trying ever since to 
recollect his name.” 

u Then you did not see him very 
distinctly ? 

u No : he was very blue.” 
u I should have delivered him,” 
said Bussy : u gentlemen owe it to 
each other to unite against the ras- 
caille ; but, in truth, Remy, I was 
too much taken up with my own 
affairs.” 


u But, if we did not lecognize him 
distinctly, he most certainly recog- 
nized us, who had our natural color, 
for it seemed to me that he rolled his 
eyes about terribly, and that he 
clenched his fists at us in a threaten- 
ing manner.” 

u You are sure,” said Bussy. 
u I can answer for the eyes, but I 
am not so sure about the fists,” said 
Le Haudouin, aware of Bussy’s 
irascible disposition. 

u Then I must find out who the 
gentleman was : I cannot overlook 
such an insult.” 

u Wait, wait,” cried Remy, as 
though he had got out of cold water 
and into warm water. u Oh, mon 
Diea , I have it ! I know who it was.” 
u How can you know ?” 
u I heard him swear.” 
u Zounds, I suppose you did ! 
Any one would have sworn in his 
position.” 

u Yes, but he swore in German.” 

“ Bah !” 

u He said, Gott ver damme /” 
u Then it was Scliomberg.” 
u The very man, Monsieur le 
comte, the very man.” 

u Then, my dear Remy, prepare 
your ointments.” 

“ What for ?” 

u Because before long either his 
skin or mine will require a little re- 
pairing.” 

u You will not be so mad as to go 
and get killed, now that you are in 
such good health and so happy,” said 
Remy, winking an eye. u By my 
faith, although Marie the Egyptian 
has restored you to life once, she may 
tire of performing a miracle which 
greater than she only performed 
twice.” 

u On the' contrary, Remy,” said 
the count : u you have no idea of 
the readiness with which a happy 
man will risk his life against another 
man. I can assure you that I have 
never fought with good heart after 
losing large sums at play, after a 
quarrel with my mistress, or when I 
had anything wherewith to reproach 


18 


272 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


% 


myself; whereas, whin my purse is ] 
full, my heart light, and my con- 
science clear, I can go on the ground 
cheerily : my hand is then sure. I 
can read into the very eyes of my 
foe : fortune sides with me. I am in 
the position of a man playing at 
pcuse-dise , with the run in his favor, 
and who feels that his adversary’s 
old is his. Yes, then I am truly 
rilliant, and I may say, irresistible. 

I should fight admirably well to-day, 
Remy,” said the knight, putting out 
his hand to the leech, u for, thanks 
to you, I am very happy !” 

u A moment, a moment,” said Le 
Haudouin ; u you will, nevertheless, 
deprive yourself of that said pleas- 
ure, for to-day. A fine lady of my 
acquaintance has recommended you 
to me, and has made me swear to 
keep you safe and sound, assigning as 
a reason, that you owed her your life, 
and that a man is not at liberty to 
dispose of what is not his own.” 
u Good, Remy!” ejaculated Bussy, 
surrendering himself to that vague 
species of reverie which enables the 
man who is in love to hear and see all 
the acts and all the words of the be- 
loved object — a delightful state of 
being, which resembles a dream, and 
yet is not all a dream, for while his 
soul pursues its sweet and faithful 
bent, his senses remain susceptible of 
being awakened by the word or ges- 
ture of a friend. u You call me good 
Remy,” said Le Haudouin, u because 
1 enabled you to see once more Ma- 
dame de Monsoreau, but, will you 
continue to call rue good Remy, when 
you are about to be separated from 
her — and that day is approaching, 
if it has not already arrived !” 

u What do you say r” cried he, en- 
ergetically. u No jesting on that 
topic, Master Le Haudouin.” 

u Hey, sir, I am not jesting ! 
Are you not aware that she is going 
to leave for Anjou, and that I myself 
shall have to separate from Made- 
moiselle Gertrude — Ah !” 

Bussy could not forbear smiling at 
Remy’s pretended grief. 


u You love Gertrude dearly then r” 
he asked. 

u Love her ! That I do — and she — 
if you only knew how she beats me !” 
u Why do you let her ?” 
u From love of science. She has 
compelled me to invent a sovereign 
remedy for the cure of the blues.” 
u Then you should send some of 
your remedy to Schomberg.” 

u Pshaw, Schomberg ! Let him rid 
himself of his paint as he can.” 
u Well, to return to Madame de 
Monsoreau, or rather to Diana of Me- 
ridor — for you know.” 

u Oh, Mon Dieu, yes, I know.” 
u Remy, when do we start ?” 
u Ah, what I was expecting ! As 
late as possible, Monsieur Le Comte.” 
u Why so ?” 

u In the first place, because we 
have in Paris the head of our society, 
the sweet Duke of Anjou, who figur- 
ed yesterday evening in such a way 
as I think renders it very probable that 
he will soon require our services.” 
u Next ?” 

u Next, because, by especial good 
luck, Monsieur de Monsoreau has no 
suspicion, so far as you are concern 
ed, at least, and because he would 
probably suspect something, were he 
to see you disappear from Paris at 
the same time as his wife, who is not 
his wife.” 

u Well, let him suspect — what mat- 
ters it to me ?” 

u Perhaps nothing ; but it does to 
me, my dear count. I can promise you 
to patch up the wounds you may receive 
in your duels ; because, as you are a 
first-rate swordsman, they can never 
be very serious ; but, I wash my 
hands of stabs in the dark, especially 
when given by jealous husbands : 
these are animals who, in such cases, 
are apt to strike very hard. IwSok, 
for instance, at the fate of poor Mon- 
sieur de Saint-Megrin, who was so 
wickedly murdered by our friend 
Monsieur de Guise.” 

66 It cannot be helped, my dear 
fellow ; if it be my fate to be killed 
by this Monsoreau” — 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


273 


“ Well ?’ 

<c Well, he will kill me!” 
u And then, a week, a month, or a 
year after, Madame de Monsoreau 
will be her husband’s wife ; an event 
which will be a sad torment to your 
poor soul, when it witnesses it from 
above or below, and feels its inability 
to oppose it, forasmuch as it will 
have no body.” 

u You are right, Remy ; I must 
live.” 

u So far so good ; but, to live 
will not suffice : you must, more- 

over, follow my advice — you must 
make yourself agreeable to Monso- 
reau. He is now dreadfully jealous 
of my lord the Duke of Anjou, who, 
while you were fortunately in your 
bed, quaking with the fever, was 
walking under the lady’s window 
like a romantic Spaniard, and who 
was recognized by Aurilly. Make 
all sorts of advances to this good hus- 
band, who is not a husband. Make 
no inquiry about what has become of 
his wife — indeed, to do so, will be 
needless, as you will yourself be well 
informed — and he will proclaim you 
everywhere to be the only man living 
possessing the virtues of Scipio — so- 
briety and chastity.” 

a I believe that you are right, 
Remy,” said Bussy. u Now, that I 
am no longer jealous of the bear, I 
shall tame him. It will be very 
amusing ! Ah, Remy, ask me to do 
anything you please ! You will find 
me apt and willing, for I am happy.” 
Hearing a knock at the door, the 
two friends suspended their conver- 
sation. 

u Who is there ?” asked Bussy. 
u Monseigneur,” answered a page, 
u there is a gentleman below, who 
wishes to speak to you.” 

cc To speak to me — so early ! Who 
is it ?” 

u A tall gentleman, dressed in green 
Velvet, with rose-colored stockings ; 
rather droll in his looks, but seem- 
ingly honest.” 

u Hey!” thought Bussy aloud, u can 
it be Schomberg ?” 


u He said i a tall gentleman.’ ” 

44 True, or Monsoreau ?” 
u He said c seemingly honest.’ ” 
u You are right, Remy; it cannot 
be either the one or the other. Show 
him up.” 

After the lapse of a moment, the 
visitor made his appearance at the 
door of the breakfast-room. 

u Ah, man Dieu /” cried Bussy, 
rising precipitately, when he saw who 
it was ; while Remy discreetly with- 
drew to an adjoining apartment. 

u Monsieur Chicot !” exclaimed 
Bussy. 

u Himself, Monsieur le Comte,” 
replied the Gascon. 

Bussy stared at him with an asto- 
nishment which plainly signified with- 
out the assistance of words : 
u What brings you here, sir ?” 
Accordingly, without being other- 
wise interrogated, Chicot replied with 
an air of great seriousness : 

u I have come, sir, to try and maka 
a bargain with you.” 

u Speak, sir,” said Bussy, not a 
little surprised. 

u What will you promise me, if I 
render you a great service ?” 

u That depends upon the service, 
sir,” replied Bussy, with some dis- 
dain. 

The Gascon pretended not to have 
remarked Bussy’s manner. 

u Sir,” said Chicot, seating him- 
self, and crossing one leg over the 
other ; u I remark that you have not 
done me, the honor of asking me to be 
seated.” 

The blood mantled Bussy’s cheeks 
u It will be so much do add to the 
reward that will be coming to me, 
when I shall have rendered you the 
service I contemplate.” 

Bussy made no reply. 
u Sir,” continued Chicot, without 
any sign of embarrassment ; u do you 
know the League ?” 

u I have heard it much spoken of,” 
replied Bussy, beginning to pay some 
attention to what the Gascon was 
saying. 

1 “Then, sir,” said Chicot, “ y^u 


274 


l 


DIANA OF MERIDOR: OR, 


have probably hoard that it is an as- 1 
Fociation of honest Christians, formed 
for the purpose of religiously massa- 
cring their neighbors, the Huguenots. 
Do you belong to the League, sir ? I 
do.” 

“ But, sir—” 

“ Say either yes or no.” 

“ Permit me to feel surprised,” said 
Bussy. 

“ I had the honor of asking you if 
you belonged to the League — did you 
hear me ?” 

“ Monsieur Chicot,” said Bussy, 

“ as I do not like questions, the pur- 
port of which I do not understand, I 
must request you to change the con- 
versation ; meanwhile, I would re- 
mark to you, with all possible deco- 
rum, that, not liking questions, I na- 
turally do not like questioners.” 

“ Well remarked; decorum is de- 
corous, as worthy Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau says when he is in good hu- 
mor.” 

At the name of Monsoreau, which 
the Gascon pronounced without ap- 
parent allusion, Bussy gave a start. 

“ Ahem !” said he to himself, 
c can it be that Monsoreau suspects 
something, and has he sent this Chi- 
cot on a prying expedition ?” 

Then aloud : 

“ Come, Monsieur Chicot, to the | 
point ; I have but a few minutes to 
spare.” 

“ Optime /” said Chicot, “ a few 
minutes w T ill suffice ; people can say 
a great deal to each other in a few 

o « 

minutes. To return : I admit that I 
might have dispensed with asking 
questions, since, if you do not alread}^ 
belong to the Holy League, you will 
belong to it shortly beyond a doubt, 
inasmuch as my lord of Anjou is a 
member of that respectable associa- 
tion.” 

“ My lord of Anjou ! Who has 
told you that ?” 

“ He himself ; speaking to me in 
person, as legal gentlemen are in the 
habit of saying, or, rather, of writing, 
as was used to write, for instance, 
that worthy and honorable Master 


Nicholas David, one of the lights of 
the forum Parisienne ; a light, by the 
way, which has been put out without 
any one blowing it out. Now, you 
must be well aware that, if my lord 
the Duke of Anjou belongs to the 
League, you cannot avoid belonging 
to it too ; you who are his right arm, 
que cliable ! The League knows too 
well what it is about to accept a one- 
handed chief.” 

“ Well, Monsieur Chicot, what 
next ? ” said Bussv, with more cour- 
1 tesy of manner than he had hitherto 
manifested. 

u What next ?” resumed Chicot. 
u The next is, that, if you join it, or, 
if it be only believed that you intend 
to join it — and believed it certainly 
will be — the same thing will occur to 
you that has occurred to his Royal 
Highness.” 

“ What has occurred to his Royal 
Highness ?” cried Bussy impetuously. 

“ Sir,” said Chicot, rising and mi- 
micking the attitude that Bussy had 
assumed a moment before ; “ sir, I 
do not like questions, and, permit me 
to add, that neither do I like ques- 
tioners ; I am, therefore, half in- 
clined to let you undergo the same 
treatment that your master underwent 
last night.” 

“Monsieur Chicot,’’ said Bussy, 
with a smile which conveyed all the 
apologies that one gentleman could 
be expected to make to another, 
“ speak, I entreat you — where is my 
lord the duke r” 

“ He is in prison.” 

“ Where?” 

“ In his own room. He is under 
guard of four of my particular 
: friends.” 

“ So, sir,” said Bussy, “ you think 
that my liberty is in danger ?” 

“ Danger ! A moment, sir ; let us 
suppose that while we are discours- 
ing, certain officers should be on the 
way — or should be preparing to be on 
the way — to arrest you !” 

Bussy started. 

“ How do vou like the Bastille, 
Monsieur de Bussv ? It is a nlace 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


275 


admirably suited for solitary medita- 
tion, and Monsieur Laurent Testu, 
the Governor, is said to keep a capital 
table — for his young pigeons.” 

“ Confine me in the Bastille !” cried 
Bussy. 

u P faith, and I ought to have in 
my poeket something like an order to 
take you there, Monsieur de Bussy. 
Would you like to see it ?” 

And saying so, Chicot produced 
from the pocket of his chausses, which 
could have contained three times 
such limbs as his were, an order by 
the King, in due form, commanding 
the arrest of Monsieur Louis de Cler- 
mont, lord of Amboise, wherever he 
might be found. 

u Drawn up by Monsieur de Que- 
lus,” said Chicot, u and extremely 
well written.” 

u Then, sir,” exclaimed De Bussy, 
u you purpose really rendering me a 
service.” 

u I think I show that such is my 
purpose,” said Chicot ; u what is 
your own opinion ?” 

u Sir,” said Bussy, “ let me con- 
jure you to treat me as a gentleman. 
Do you save me to-day, in order that 
you may harm me on some other oc- 
casion ? I ask you, because you like 
the King, and the King does not like 
me.” 

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said Chi- 
cot, rising from his chair, and bow- 
ing, u I save you to save you : now, 
you may think what you please of my 
act.” 

u But for goodness sake, to what 
am I to attribute such kindness ?” 

“ Have you forgotten that I told 
you I should expect a reward 
u True, you did.” 

“ Well ?” 

<c Oh, sir, with all my heart.” 
u Then you will be prepared t" do 
what, one day or other, I may ask 
you to do ?” 

u By the word of Bussy ! So far 
as what you ask may be feasible.” 
u Then I am satisfied,” said Chi- 
cot, rising. u Now, mount your 
horse, and vanish. # As for me, I shall 


deliver the order for your arrest to 
whom it concerns.” 

u Why, were you not to execute 
the arrest yourself ?” 

u Fie — what do you take me for ? 
I am a gentleman, sir.” 

u It will be forsaking my master.’* 
“You need feel no compunctions, 
if you do, for he has forsaken you.” 

“ You are an honorable man, Mon- 
sieur Chic t.” 

u Parbleu , I know that,” said Chi 
cot. 

Bussy called Le Hauduoin, who, to 
do him justice, was listening at the 
door : he immediately entered. 

“ Remy,” cried Bussy, “ Remy, to 
horse !” 

“ Our horses are waiting,” replied 
Remy, quietly. 

“ Sir,” said Chicot, “ you have 
there, a very clever friend.” 

“ ParbleuP said Remy, “ I know 
that !” 

And when Chicot bowed to him, he 
bowed to Chicot after the fashion in 
which Moliere, fifty years after, in- 
tended his clowns to bow. 

Bussy stuffed a few piles of crowns 
in his own pockets, and in Le Hau- 
douin’s pockets. 

After which, taking leave of Chicot 
and thanking him for a last time, he 
prepared to depart. 

u I beg pardon, sir,” said Chicot, 
u but permit me to witness your de- 
parture.” 

Accordingly, Chicot followed Bus- 
sy and Le Haudouin, to the stable 
yard, where, as the latter had stated, 
two saddled horses were in waiting. 

“Where are we going?,” asked 
Remy, as he carelessly arranged his 
horse’s bridle. 

“ Why” — said Bussy, undecided, 
or aup curing undecided. 

“ What do you say to Normandy, 
sir?” said Chicot, who was looking 
on, and examining the horses with 
the eye of a good judge. 

“ No,” replied Bussy ; u that is too 
near.” 

u What do you think of Flanders : /J 
continued Chicot 


27G 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u That would be too far.” 
u I suppose,” said Remy, u that 
you will decide on Anjou, which is a 
reasonable distance — is it not, Mon- 
sieur le Comte ?” 

u Yes, Anjou let it be,” said Bus- 
sy, turning scarlet. 

u Since, sir,” said Chicot, u you 
have made your choice, and are going 
to start” — 

• u On the instant.” 
u I have the honor to bid you good 
bye : think of me in your prayers.” 
And the worthy gentleman went 
I-is Way, with a step as grave and 
majestic as his parting salute, rat- 
tling his huge rapier against the cor- 
ners of the houses as he went. 

u Only see what a thing destiny is, 
sir!” said Remy. 

u Let us hasten onward,” said Bus- 
sy, u perhaps we may overtake her.” 
u Ah ! sir,” said Le Haudouin, u if 
you come in aid to destiny, you de- 
prive it of half its merit.” 

They sped their way. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

chicot’s chess, quelus’s bilboquet, 

AND SCHOMBERG’s SARBACAND. 

It may be asserted that, notwith- 
standing Chicot’s apparent coldness, 
he returned to the Louvre with a joy- 
ous heart. 

He had the three-fold satisfaction 
of having done a service to a gallant 
knight as he esteemed Bussy to be, 
of having dabbled in an intrigue, and 
of having rendered it possible for the 
King to take the high-handed step 
which circumstances required. 

In fact, with such a head, amd es- 
pecially with such a heart as Mon- 
sieur de Bussy was known to possess 
* — with the abilities for setting the 
populace in motion which the Mes- 
sieurs de Guise were known to possess, 
there was much to apprehend for the 
peace of the good city of Paris. 


Everything turned out as the King 
had apprehended, and precisely as 
Chicot had foreseen. 

Monsieur de Guise, after receiving 
in the morning at his own hotel the 
principal Leaguers, each of whom 
bore with him the registers filled with 
names, which had been opened, as we 
have seen, in the public places, at the 
doors of the principal taverns, and 
even on the very altars of the churches 
— Monsieur de Guise, after promising 
that the League would have a chief, 
and after making his visitors swear 
that they would obey the chief that 
the King might appoint — Monsieur 
de Guise, after conferring with the 
Cardinal and Monsieur de Mayenne, 
left his dwelling to call upon my lord 
the Duke of Anjou, whom he had lost 
sight of the preceding night, about 
one o’clock, and had not seen since. 

Chicot anticipated this visit, and 
accordingly, on separating from Bus- 
sy, he placed himself immediately on 
the watch in the neighborhood of 
the Hotel d’ Anjou situated at the 
corner of the Rue Hautefeuille and 
of the Rue Saint-Andre. He had 
been at his post scarcely a quarter 
of an hour, when he saw the party 
he was expecting make his appear- 
ance at the head of the Rue de la 
Huenette. 

Chicot stood back a little, so as to 
conceal his person, at the corner of 
the Rue de la Cimetiere, and the Duke 
of Guise entered the hotel without 
having perceived him. 

The duke found the prince’s first 
valet de chambre rather uneasy on 
his master’s account ; but, of course, 
he had partly concluded that the 
prince had passed the night at the 
Louvre. 

The Duke of Guise inquired if, the 
prince being absent, he could speak 
with Aurilly. The valet de chambre 
made answer that Aurilly was in his 
master’s cabinet, and that the duke 
might put such questions to him 
as he saw fit. 

The duke passed on. This Auril- 
ly, a lute player, and the prince’s 


THE LADY OF MONSOREATJ. 


277 


confident, has already appeared in this | where I have no doubt but that you 


narrative : he was deep in all my 


will find his Highness.” 


lord the Duke of Anjou’s secrets, and 
was more likely than any one else to 
know the whereabouts of his High- 
ness. 

Aurilly was to the full as uneasy as 
the valet de chambre ; from time to 
time he would put down his lute 
v hich he was touching with an abstract- 
ed air, and approach the window to 
see if the duke was not on his way 
home. 

Three times, a messenger had been 
dispatched to the Louvre, and each 
time the answer was that my lord had 
reached the palace at a very late hour, 
and that he was still in bed. 

Monsieur de Guise questioned Au- 
rilly about his master’s movements. 

Aurilly had been separated from 
his master the preceding evening, at 
the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec, 
by a reinforcement which was pressing 
forward to join the crowd assembled 
in front of the hostelry of the Belle 
Etoile, so that he had returned to the 
Hotel d’ Anjou, there to wait for his 
master, not being aware of his High- 
ness’s intention to sleep at the Lou- 
vre. The lute-player then told the 
Lorraine prince how he had sent three 
times to the Louvre, and what answer 
had each time been returned. 

u Asleep at eleven o’clock!” said 
the duke, u it is scarcely probable : 
the King himself is generally up at 
that hour. You should go to the Lou- 
vre, Aurilly.’’ 

u I thought of going there, my 
lord,” said Aurilly, u but I appre- 
hend that this pretended sleep is 
one of his Highness’s stratagems to 
conceal some affair of gallantry 
in which he may have been engaged 
during the night, and if so, his High- 
ness will not be pleased at my inquir- 
ing for him.” 

u Aurilly - v resumed the duke, 
u take m_| word for it, that his High- 
ness is to^sensible a man to be engag- 
ed in affairs of gallantry at such a junc- 
ture as the present. Go, there- 
fore, without fear, to the Louvre, 


u I will go, my lord, since you de- 
sire it ; but what am I to say to his 
Highness when 1 see him?” 

u Tell him that the convocation at 
the Louvre is to take place at two 
o’clock, and that I wish him to be 
reminded that we two have to confer 
together before proceeding to the 
King’s presence. .You see, Aurilly,” 
added the duke, in a tone of ill-hu- 
mor passably disrespectful, u that it 
is not at a time when the King is 
going to appoint a chief for the 
League, that people should be 
asleep.” 

u I hear, my lord. I am to tell 
his Highness that you are waiting for 
him.” 


u Yes, that I am waiting for him 
very anxiously : tell him that numbers 
belonging to the party are already at 
the Louvre, and that there is not a 
moment to be lost. Meanwhile, I 
shall send for Monsieur de Bussy.” 
U I understand, my lord; but, in 
case I should not find his Highness, 
w r hat am I to do ?” 

66 If you do not find his Highness, 
make no show of searching for him. 
Your known zeal in his service will 
acquit you of the suspicion of neg- 
lect. In any case, I shall be at the 
Louvre at a quarter before two.” 
Aurilly bowed, and the Duke de- 
parted. 

Chicot saw him leave, and guessed 
the cause of his departure. Were 
the Duke of Guise to hear of the 
arrest of my lord of Anjou, all would 
be lost, or at least greatly endanger- 
ed. Chicot saw Aurilly proceed up 
the Rue de la Huenette, in the di- 
rection of the Pont St. Michael ; he, 
on the contrary, went down the Rue 
Saint-Andre-des-Arts, as rapidly as 
his long legs could carry him, and 
crossed the Seine below Nesle, just 
as Auri Hy came out in front of the 
Grand-Chatelet. 

m We shall follow Aurilly, and this 
will lead us to the scene of the im- 
portant events of the day. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


378 

He proceeded down the quays, [ 
which he found lined with citizens, 
all looking elated and triumphant, 
and reached the Louvre, which, as 
contrasted with the tumultuous joy 
prevailing in other parts of the city, 
struck him as having put on its calm- 
est and serenest aspect. 

Aurilly knew the world and the 
ways of a court : he first entered into 
conversation with .the officer of the 
gate, who was always a person of 
considerable importance to loungers 
and newsmongers. 

The officer of the gate was gracious 
and communicative ; the King had 
risen in the very best of humors. 

Aurilly passed from the officer of 
the gate to the gate-keeper. 

The gate-keeper was reviewing a 
number of domestics in new dresses, 
and distributing to them newly-fash- 
ioned halberds. 

He smiled when he saw the lute- 
player, and replied to his remarks 
about the weather, which gave Auril- 
iy a very favorable opinion of the 
state of the political atmosphere. 

Consequently, Aurilly passed on, 
and ascended the grand staircase, be- 
stowing an abundance of bows on the 
courtiers loitering on the steps and 
about the antechambers. 

At the door of his Highness’s 
apartments, he found Chicot seated 
on a folding-chair. 

Chicot was playing at chess all 
alone, and seemed to be absorbed in 
some very deep combination. 

Aurilly tried to pass on, but Chicot 
with his long legs occupied the whole 
width of the landing-place. 

He had to touch the Gascon on the 
shoulder. 

u Ah, is that you?” said Chicot. 
“ I beg pardon, Monsieur Aurilly.’’ 

u What are you at, Monsieur Chi- 
cot?” 

“ I am playing chess, as you see.” 

“ Alone ?” j rtfl fr 

“ Yes ; I am studying 'a move. Do 
you play chess, sir ?” ^ 

u Very little.” 

“ Yes, I understand : you are a 


musician, and music is so difficult an 
art, that the privileged mortals who 
are permitted to apply themselves to 
it, are obliged to devote all their time 
and intelligence to their studies.” 
u It would seem that your move is 
an important one ?’’ said Aurilly, 
laughing. 

C O 

u Yes, my king is in an awkward 
position : you must know, Monsieur 
Aurilly, that in the game of chess 
the king is a very silly and insignifi- 
cant performer : he cannot make a 
step to the right, nor a step to the 
left, not a step forward, nor a step 
backward, without finding himself 
opposed by enemies who are always 
on the alert ; by knights who can 
clear three squares at a single leap, 
and by foot-soldiers who surround 
him, press on him and harass him ; 
so that if he be badly advised, why, 
faith, he is a gone king. To be sure 
he has his fou, who comes and goes, 
who can trot from one side of the 
board to the other, and who is privi- 
leged to place himself before him, 
behind him, or beside him ; but, it 
is not the less certain that the more 
the foil is devoted to his king, the 
more he exposes himself, Monsieur 
Aurilly, and just now, I must con- 
fess that my king and his foil are in 
a very perilous position.” 

u But,” asked Aurilly, u how comes 
it that you are studying out all these 
combinations at his Royal High- 
ness’s door ?” 

“Because I am waiting for Mon- 

<Tj 

sieu de Quelus, who is inside. ” 
u Inside where ?” asked Aurilly. 
u With his Highness.” 

“ Monsieur de Quelus with his 
Highness ?” exclaimed Aurilly, with 
surprise. 

During this dialogue, Chicot had 

O O 

made room for the lute-player, but at 
the same time had so contrived as to 
establish himself in the passage, plac- 
ing Monsieur de Guise’s envoy be-* 
tween himself and the door. 

Aurilly, now that he had free ac- 
cess to the door, hesitated about 
opening it. 


1 HE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


u But,” said he, u what can Mon- 
sieur Quelus be doing in the apart- 
ment of my lord the Duke of Anjou ? 
I knew not that they were such great 
friends.” 

u Hush !” said Chicot, with an air 
of mystery. 

Then, still holding his chess-board, 
he described a curve with his long 
person, so that without moving his 
Let, his lips reached Aurilly’s ear. 

u He is here,” whispered Chicot, 
iC to ask his Royal Highness’s pardon, 
for a little matter that occurred yes- 
terday.” 

u Indeed ?” said Aurilly. 
u And by the King’s command. 
You know on what excellent terms the 
two brothers now are. The King 
would not suffer Quelus to be imper- 
tinent, and so Quelus has to humble 
himself.” 
u Indeed !” 

u Ah, Monsieur Aurilly, I really 
believe that the age of gold is draw- 
ing near, the Louvre seems likely to 
become an Arcadia, and the two 
brothers, Arcades ambo. Ah, I beg 
pardon, Monsieur Aurilly, I always 
forget that you are a musician.” 
Aurilly smiled, and passed into the 
antechamber, opening the door wide 
enough to allow Chicot to exchange a 
significant glance with Quelus, who, 
beside, had probably been notified 
some time previous, that Aurilly 
would present himself. 

Chicot then resumed his Palame- 
dic combinations, scolding his King, 
not more severely, perhaps, than a 
~eal flesh and blood King would have 
deserved, but certainly more severely 
than was deserved by an innocent 
piece of ivory. 

Aurilly, when he entered the ante- 
chamber, was saluted very politely by 
Quelus in whose hands a superb ebo- 
ny bilbo, juet, inlaid with ivory, was be- 
ing made to perform rapid evolutions. 

u Bravo, Monsieur Quelus !” said 
Aurilly, as he saw the ^oung noble 
execute a difficult feat. 

u Ah, my dear Monsieur Aurilly*” 

said Quelus, u when shall I be able to 
* % 


379 

play with the bilboquet as well ^ 
you do on the lute ?” 

u When you shall have practised 
with your toy,” replied Auridy, some- 
what nettled, u as many days as I 
have given years to the study of my 
instrument. But, where is my lord, 
are you not here to see him ?” 

u Yes, I am to have an audience, 
my dear Aurilly, but Schomberg 
takes precedence of me.” 

u Ha, Monsieur de Schomberg, 
too ?” said the lute-player with fresh 
surprise. 

u Oh, Mon Dieu , yes. The King 
has so settled it. He is there in the 
dinner-saloon. Walk in, Monsieur 
d’Aurilly, and do me the favor to re- 
mind the prince that we are waiting.” 
Aurilly opened a second door, and 
saw Schomberg recumbent, rather 
than seated, on a large stool stuffed 
with feathers. 

In this posture, Schomberg was 
aiming with his sarbacand at a small 
gold ring, suspended from the ceiling 
by a silken thread, and trying to 
shoot through it small balls of scent- 
ed clay, of which he had an ample 
supply in his pouch, and which a fa- 
vorite dog retrieved for him, when 
they did not crumble on striking. 

u What,” cried Aurilly, u in my 
lord’s apartments, such a pastime as 
this ! Ah, Monsieur de Schomberg!” 
u Ah, giiten Morgen , Monsieur 
Aurilly,” said Schomberg, interrupt- 
ing his trial of skill. u You see how 
I manage to kill time 'while waiting 

o O 

my turn of audience.” 

u But, where is my lord?” asked 
Aurilly. 

u Hush! my lord is at the present 
moment occupied in pardoning D’- 
Epernon and Maugiron. But will you 
not enter, you have free access to the 
prince r” 

u Perhaps it would be indiscreet,” 
observed, the musician. 

u Not at all — on the contrary. 
You wilbfind him in his painting room 
Walk inj Monsieur Aurilly, walk 
in.” 

With these words, he pushed Au- 


280 


DIANA OF MERITOR; OR, 


rilly by the shoulders into the adjoin- 
ing room, where the musician, all 
aghast, first saw D’Epernon before a 
mirror, busy in stiffening his mus- 
taches with gum, while Maugiron, 
seated near the window, was cutting 
into figures a set of engravings on a 
par with the relievi of the temple of 
Venus Aphrodite at Cnidus, or the 
paintings of the piscina of Tiberius 
at Caprea. 

The duke, deprived of his sword, 
was in his arm-chair between these 
two men, who only looked at him to 
watch his movements, and only spoke 
to him to make him hear something 
disagreeable. 

As soon as he saw Aurilly, he at- 
tempted to rush forward to meet him. 

u Have a care, my lord,” said 
Maugiron, u you are walking on my 
pictures.” 

u Mon Dien /” cried the musician, 
they are insulting my master.” 
u Sweet Monsieur d’ Aurilly,” said 
D’Epernon, continuing the manipula- 
tion of his mustaches, u how goes 
it ? Very well, I suppose, for you 
look a little red.” 

u Do me the favor, master musi- 
cian, to bring me that little dagger 
of yours, if you please,” said Mau- 
giron. 

u Gentlemen, gentlemen, do you 
forget where you are ?” said Aurilly. 

u It is precisely because we do not 
forget, my dear Orpheus,” said D’- 
Epernon, “ that we. want your dag- 
ger. my good fellow. You see that 
rny lord the duke has none.” 

u Aurilly,” said the duke, in a 
voice of rage and grief, u do you not 
S' i e that I am a prisoner r” 
u Whose prisoner r” 
u My brother’s. You might have 
thought so when you saw who were 
icy jailers.” 

Aurilly was stupified. 
u Oh, if I could only have imagined 
rids to be possible !” 

u You would have brought your 
iuoC to divert his Highness,” said a 
sneering voice, u but I thought of it. 
I sent for it, and here it is.” 


And Chicot, as he spoke, handed 
the poor musician his lute. Behind 
Chicot, might have been seen Quelus 
and Schomberg, yawning so as to en- 
danger the integrity of their jaws. 

u Your game of chess, what of it, 
Chicot ?” asked D’Epernon. 
u Ha, true !” said Quelus. 
u Gentlemen, I trust that my fou 
will save his King, but, morbleu , it 
will not be without trouble. Come, 
Monsieur Aurilly, give me your dag- 
ger for the lute. A fair exchange.” 
The dismayed musician obeyed, 
and then went and seated himself on 
a cushion at his master’s feet. 

u We have caught one in the trap,” 
said Quelus — u now for the others.” 
And with these words, which ex- 
plained to Aurilly the scenes that 
had preceded, Quelus returned to 
resume his place in the antechamber, 
only requesting Schomberg to ex- 
change his scabbard for his bilboquet. 

u Right,” said Chicot, u we should 
always vary our amusements ; to 
vary mine, I shall go and sign the 
League.” 

He closed the door behind him, 
leaving as an addition to His Royal 
Highness’s society, the poor lute- 
player. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW THE KING APPOINTED A CHIEF 
OVER THE LEAGUE, AND HOW IT WAS 
NEITHER HIS HIGHNESS THE DUKE 
OF ANJOU, NOR MY LORD THE DUKE 
OF GUISE. 

The hour of the grand reception hud 
arrived, or, rather, was about to ar- 
rive, for from noon the Louvre had 
been filling with the principal le.' der.\ 
their partizans, and curious specta- 
tors. Paris, in as great an uproar as 
the preceding night, but with His 
difference, that the Suisses, who h - A 
not participated in the saturnaVa ol 


THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


the preceding night, were now the 
principal performers. Paris had sent 
to the Louvre its deputations of 
Leaguers, its trade guilds, its esche- 
vins, its train-hands, and its constant- 
ly returning hosts of spectators, who, 
on those days when the whole people 
are occupied about something, are to 
be found surrounding the people, and 
whose activity, curiosity, and num- 
bers are so great that it might be be- 
lieved that there are two co-existing 
populations. Thus, in that large city, 
is presented an image of the world, 
in which every individual consists of 
two elements — the element that acts, 
and the element that superintends. 

Although the vicinity of the Louvre 
was crowded with vast popular masses, 
no apprehensions were entertained for 
its safety. The day had not yet ar- 
rived, when the popular murmur, 
taking the form of artillery, was to 
overthrow walls and castles, and bury 
its masters beneath the ruins. The 
Suisses of the days we are describing 
• — the ancestors of the Suisses of the 
tenth of August and twenty-seventh 
of July — greeted the Parisian masses 
with smiles, even although those mass- 
es were armed, and the Parisians greet- 
ed the Suisses with smiles ; the day 
was still far distant when the people 
would venture to stain the threshold 
of its Kin gs with blood. 

Nevertheless, let it not be imagined 
that, because deprived of sanguinary 
features, the play was wanting in in- 
terest. On the contrary, the scene 
. presented at the Louvre was one of 
the most curious that has yet been de- 
scribed in this narrative. The King, 
in his grand saloon — in the saloon of 
the throne — and surrounded by his 
officers, by his friends, and his family, 
formed a group before which the va- 
rious bodies deputed by the city, pass- 
ed in procession, and they, after bear- 
ing their leaders in the palace, took 
up the positions assigned to them in 
its vards and under its windows. 

The King was thus enabled to em- 
brace, with one glance, the whole 
body of his enemies, and almost to 


count them, instructed as he was bv 
Chicot, concealed behind the royal 
chair. At times he would receive a 
look of warning from the Queen- 
mother ; at times his ear would catch 
the hollow murmurs of the impatient 
masses. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau suddenly 
entered. 

u Ho, ho !” said Chicot. u Look, 
little Henry !” 
u Look at what ?” 
u At your Grand-Huntsman, par - 
dicu! He is well worth the trouble, 
were it only to see how pale he is, and 
how bespattered he is.” 

“ Why, really,” said the King, “ it 
is he.” 

Henry made a sign to Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, who instantly approached 
the King. 

u How happens it that you are at 
the Louvre, sir ?” asked Henry. u I 
thought that 3m u were at Vincennes, 
on duty.” 

u We harbored a stag, Sire, this 
morning, at seven o’clock ; but, see- 
ing twelve o’clock arrive without any 
intelligence from the court, I feared 
lest something unfortunate had hap- 
pened. I have hastened back to the 
city to satisfy myself that your Ma- 
jesty was safe.” 

u Indeed !” said the King 
u Sire ! if I have failed in the mere 
duty of my office, attribute, I pray 
you, my mistake to my excessive de- 
votion to your royal person.” 

u I do, sir, ’’said Henry, u and rest 
assured that I appreciate it.” 

u Now,” replied the count, with 
best ation, u if your Majesty com- 
mands me to return to Vincennes, as 
I feel re-assured” — 

u No ! remain where you are, 
notre Grand- Veneur, this chase was a 
whim of the moment, and has passed 
away as it came ; remain, and be at 
hand ; I have need to retain about me 
all who are devoted to my person, 
and you have just classed yourself 
among those upon whose attachment 
and fidelity I can rely.” 

Monsoreau bowed. 


DIANA OF MEEIDOR; OR. 


282 

“ Whe e is it your Majesty’s plea- 
sure that I should station myself ?’ 7 
asked the Count. 

“ Hand him over to me for half an 
hour,” whispered Chicot in the King’s 
ear. 

“ What for?” 

“ To plague him. What need you 
care? You owe me some compensation 
for making me he present at this 
stupid ceremony.” 

“ Well ! take him !” 

“ Where is it your Majesty’s plea- 
sure that I should station myself?” 
again asked the count. 

“ I thought I had answered you. 
Where you please. Behind my chair, 
for instance. It is there I place my 
friends.” 

“ Come, notre Grand-Veneur,” 
said Chicot, giving Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau a share of the place that had 
been reserved for his sole use, “ and 
scent me those rogues a little. Here 
comes game that you can track with- 
out a blood-hound. Udsbuddikins, 
Monsieur le Comte, what a flavor ! i 
There, the shoemakers are passing or 
rather have passed, and, now for the 
tanners. ’S death, if you lose the 
track of those customers, I give you 
fair notice that I will deprive you of 
your office.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau had the 
appearance of listening, or, to speak 
more correctly, he was listening with- 
out hearing He was manifestly full 
of anxiety, and looked about him 
with an air of pre-occupation which 
could not fail to be remarked by the 
King, especially as Chicot took good 
care to draw his attention to it. 

u Hey !” whispered he to the King, 
guess what your Grand-Huntsman is 
pursuing now.” 

“ What ?” 

“ He is pursuing your brother of 
Anjou.” 

“ Then, it is not with a view- 
kalloo !” said Henry laughing. 

“No, it is on the guess. Do you 
want him to remain ignorant of where 
he is ?” 


“ I confess that I should not bo 
sorry to put him on a false scent.” 

“ Stop, stop — I will start him. It 
is said that the wolf has the nose of 
the fox ; it will lead him astray. 
Just ask him where the countess is.” 

“ What for?” 

u Ask him, and you will see.” 

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said Henry, 
“what have you done with Madame 
de Monsoreau ? I do not see her 
among the ladies present.” 

The count started as though a 

O 

snake had bitten him on the foot. 

Chicot rubbed the end of his nose, 
and rnnked at the King. 

“ Sire,” replied the Grand-Hunts- 
man, “ the countess was indisposed 
— the air of Paris was not good for 
her — and she went out of town last 
night with my father the Baron de 
Meridor, after soliciting and obtain- 
ing the queen’s permission.” 

“ And to what part of France has 
she directed her steps ?” asked the 
King, delighted to have an opportu- 
| nity to turn aside his head while the 
tanners were passing by. 

“ To Anjou, her native country. 
Sire. ” 

“ The fact is,” said Chicot, grave- 
ly, “ that the air of Paris is not 
good for women in certain situ- 
ations : Gravidis uxoribus Lutitia 

inclemens. I would advise you to 
follow the count’s example, Henry, 
and to send the Queen somewhere, 
when she” — 

Monsoreau grew lividly pale, and 
looked furiously at Chicot, who with 
his elbow leaning on the roval chair, 
and his chin resting on his hand, 
seemed to be gazing attentively at 
the lace-makers, who came immedi- 
atelv after the tanners. 

“ And who has told you, Mister 
impertinent, that Madame La Com- 
tessewas in that situation ?” muttered 
Monsoreau. 

“ Is she not ?’’ said Chicot. “To 
suppose that she was not, would, it 
seems to me, be still more imperti- 
nent.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


283 


i She is not. Sir.” 
u Listen, listen,” said Chicot. 
u Did you hear, Henry ? It seems 
that your Grand-Huntsman has com- 
mitted the same fault as yourself, in 
the matter of our Lady’s tunics.” 
Monsoreau clenched his fists, and 
struggling to keep down his anger, 
contented himself, for the moment, 
with bestowing on Chicot a look that 
conveyed hatred and threats ; this 
look, the latter replied to by pulling 
his hat over his eyes, and by waving, 
in snake-like fashion, the thin and 
long feather, which embellished his 
head-piece. 

The count saw that the time would 
be ill- chosen to give way to his re- 
sentment, and shook his head as 
though he would rid his brain of the 
dark thoughts with which it was 
laden. 

Chicot, in like manner, dropped 
his frown, and exchanged his hector- 
ing air for one of his most gracious 
smiles. 

u The poor countess,” said he, 
u will die for the want of society, be- 
fore her journey is ended.’’ 

u I have told his Majesty,” said 
Monsoreau, u that Madame de Mon- 
soreau travelled with her father.” 
u Even so. A father is respecta- 
ble. I do not say to the contrary — 
but he is not entertaining ; and if she 
had only the worthy baron to divert 
her by the way — but fortunately” — 
u What r” hastily asked the count. 
u What, what ?” said Chicot. 
u What do you mean by — ‘ fortu- 
nately ” 

u Hah, then, your first question 
was elliptical, Monsieur le Comte ?” 
The count shrugged his shoulders. 
u 1 beg pardon, notre Grand- 
Veneur. The interrogative form 
adopted by you was elliptical. Ask 
Henry, who is a grammarian.” 

u Yes,” said Henry, u but what 
was the meaning of your adverb ?” 
u What adverb ?” 
u Fortunately ” 

u Fortunately means fortunately. 
Fortunately, I was going to say — and 


my saying it was an acknowledg- 
ment of the Divine Providence — fortu- 
nately, 1 was going to say, some of 
our most entertaining friends are now 
on their travels, and if they should 
meet with the Countess, they will be 
sure to divert her, and,” added Chi- 
cot, carelessly, u as they travel the 
same road, it is highly probable that 
they will meet her. I think I see 
them, from this. You can see them, 
Henry, you who are a man of imagi- 
nation. See, they are now passing 
through a green lane, on prancing 
steeds, and telling stories at which 
lovely and willing listeners are hearti- 
ly laughing !” 

A second stab, which made the 
Grand-Huntsman wince even more 
than did the first. 

But he dared not give vent to his 
anger ; the King was present, and in 
him Chicot had a protector, for the 
time being at least. Accordingly, he 
made strenuous efforts to check the 
resentment which was boiling over in 
his heart, and to assume an air of af- 
fability. 

u So you have friends travelling in 
the direction of Anjou,” said he to 
Chicot, in a friendly voice and man- 
ner. 

u You may even say that we have, 
Monsieur le Comte, for the friends I 
alluded to are still more your friends 
than they are mine.” 

u You surprise me, Monsieur Chi- 
cot,” said the count, u for 1 know 
none who” — 

u You need not make a mystery of 
it.” 

u I protest to you.” 

u You know them well, Monsieur 
le Comte, and they are such dear 
friends of yours, that just now— such 
is the force of custom — for you know 
perfectly well that they are on their 
way to Anjou — that just now, l saw 
you looking for them in the crowd, 
and of course looking in v ain 5# 

u Me !” exclaimed the count, you 
saw me ?” 

u Yes, you, Monsieur Le Grand- 
Veneur, the palest of all huntsmen, 


284 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


past, present, and to come, from 
Nimrod down to Monsieur d’Aute- 
fort, your predecessor.” 
u . Monsieur Chicot!” 
u The palest, I say — veritas verita- 
tum . — A veritable barbarism, by the 
by, forasmuch as there can never be 
more than one truth. If there were 
two, for instance, one would necessa- 
rily not be true : but you are no 

grammarian, dear Master Esau.” 
u No, sir, I am not : for which 
reason, I would request you to return 
to those friends of whom you were 
speaking, and to condescend — if in- 
deed your excessive imagination will 
permit you — to condescend to name 
them by their real name.” 

“ Pshaw, you are always saying 
the same thing over, Monsieur Le 
Grand- Veneur. Morbleu , seek : it 

is your trade to fall on the right 
track — witness the stag you disturbed 
this morning, and who could not have 
been looking for such treatment at 
your hands. How would you like 
to have your own sleep disturb- 
ed ?” 

But Monsoreau was no longer at- 
tending to Chicot : he was looking at 
the great lords and gentlemen who 
constituted the King's train, and as 
he looked, alarm and terror became 
depicted in his countenance. 

u What !” cried he, seeing a va- 
cant place near the king. 
u What ?” repeated Chicot. 
u My lord the Duke of Anjou!” 
cried the Grand-Huntsman. 

u Tally.-ho-ho !” said the Gascon. 
u The beast is started.” 

u Did he leave to-day ?” said the 
count. 

u He did leave to-day,” replied 
Chicot ; “but it is possible that he may 
have left yesterday. Your hunts- 
manship is no philosopher, but ask 
the Kino; who is. Little Henry, let 
me ask you when — that is to say — at 
what moment did your brother disap- 
pear ?” 

u Last night,” replied the King. 
ci The duke — the duke left last 
night !” murmured Monsoreau, pallid 


and trembling. “ Ah, Mordieu t 
what words are these, Sire?” 

u I do not say,” replied the King 
“ that he has left — I merely say that 
he disappeared last night, and that 
his best friends do not know where he 
is.” 

“ Oh,” said the count, with vehe- 
mence, u if I thought that!” 

“ Well, what would you do.' 
Though he were to whisper a little 
gallantry to Madame de Monsoreau, 
where would be the great harm ? Our 
friend Francis is the gallant of the 
family : he represented King Charles 
IX., when King Charles IX. was 
alive ; and he represented King 
Henry III. , who has something else to 
do besides being gallant. Que diable , 
it is but right that we should have atj 
court at least one royal representative 
of a distinguishing trait of the French 
character !” 

u The duke — the duke has left !” 
repeated Monsoreau. u Are you sure 
of it, sir ?” 

u Are you ?” asked Chicot. 

The Grand-Huntsman again look- 
ed at the place assigned to the prince, 
near the King, and there it was, still 
vacant 

u I am ruined !” he murmured, 
moving as though he intended to with- 
draw. Chicot held him back. 

u Zounds, will you be quiet, sir ? 
You do nothing but move, and the 
King does not like it. ’Sdeath, would 
that I could take your wife’s place, 
were it only to be a whole day face to 
face with a prince, and to hear Mon- 
sieur Aurilly, who plays on the lute like 
Orpheus of old. What a chance your 
wife has — what a chance !” 
Monsoreau shook with anger. 
u Gently, Monsieur le Grand- 
Veneur,” said Chicot, “ hide your 
joy. The sitting is just going to 
open, and this is not a fitting occasion 
to make a parade of one’s passions. 
Listen to the King’s speech.” 

The Grand-Huntsman was reluc- 
tantly compelled to keep his place, 
for the Grand Hall of the Louvre was 
now densely crowded : he therefore 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


285 


remained motionless, in the attitude 
prescribed by the ceremonial. Mon- 
sieur de Guise just at this moment 
made his appearance, and bent his 
knee before the King, not without 
also glancing with uneasy surprise at 
my lord the Duke of Anjou’s vacant 
seat. 

The King rose. The heralds com- 
manded silence. 


CHAPTER X. 

HOW THE KING NAMED A CHIEF WHO 
WAS NEITHER HIS HIGHNESS THE 
DUKE OF ANJOU, NOR MONSEIGNEUR 
THE DUKE OF GUISE. 

u Gentlemen,” said the King, amid 
theprofoundest silence, and after mak- 
ing himself sure that D’Epernon, 
Schomberg, Maugiron and Quelus — 
who had been relieved from their post 
by a guard of the Suisses — were 
standing behind him, u gentlemen, a 
King, placed, as it may be said he is, 
between heaven and earth, listens 
with equal readiness to the voice 
which proceeds from below, and the 
roice which proceeds from above ; 
£hat is to say, to what God commands 
and what his people demands. I 
can understand perfectly well, that to 
unite all the powers of the state in 
one, for the defence of the Catholic 
faith, will constitute a guarantee which 
my people have a right to claim. 
Accordingly, the advice given to me 
by cousin of Guise, is agreeable to 
me. I, therefore, hereby declare the 
Holy League to be well and duly 
authorized and instituted, and as it is 
needful that so large a body should 
have a good and powerful head — as it 
is of consequence that the chief ap- 
pointed to support the church should 
bj one of the most zealous sons of 
the church — and that his zeal should 
be the result equally of his disposi- 
tion and of his official duty, I have 


selected a Christian prince as the 
most suitable chief for the League ; 
and I hereby declare that the said 
chief shall be” — 

Here Henry purposely pa ised. 

The flight of a gnat could have 
been heard in any part of the vast 
hall. 

Henry repeated — 
u And I hereby declare, that the 
said chief shall be Henry of Valois, 
King of France and of Poland.” 
Henry, as he pronounced these 
words, raised his voice with a species 
of affectation, as a sign of triumph and 
to animate the zeal of his friends 
which was ready to burst forth, and 
also with the view of checking any 
expression of dissatisfaction, surprise 
or terror, that might proceed from the 
Leaguers. 

As for the Duke of Guise, he 
looked annihilated, big drops of per- 
spiration stood on his forehead, as he 
exchanged looks with the Duke of 
Mayenne, and his brother the cardi- 
nal, who were respectively posted in 
the centre of two groups of the lead- 
ers, the one on his right, and the 
other on his left. 

Mousoreau, more astonished than 
ever at the absence of the Duke of 
Anjou, felt somewhat re-assured when 
he reflected on Henry’s language. 

The cardinal left the group in 
which he was posted, and glided up 
to his brother’s side. 

u Francis,” he whispered in his 
ear, u I am much mistaken, or this is 
no safe place for us. Let us make 
haste and depart, for the populace is 
capricious, and the King whom it 
execrated yesterday, will be its idol 
for the next ten days.” 

u Agreed,” said Mayenne, u let us 
leave. Do you wait here for our 
brother, and I will go and prepare 
for our retreat.” 

“ Go.” 

Meanwhile, the King had signed 
the first instrument, which was lying 
all ready on the table, and had been 
drawn up beforehand by Monsiear 
de Morvilliers, the only person who 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 




was, with the Queen-mother, cogni- 
z ait of his plans. This being done, 
with that bantering manner which he 
knew so well how to assume, when it 
pleased him, and speaking at the 
same time through his nose, he said 
to Monsieur de Guise, 
u Sign, gentle cousin.” 

And he handed him the pen. 

Then he pointed out the place 
with his finger. 

u Here,” said he, u after me. 
And now pass the pen to Monsieur le 
Cardinal, and to Monsieur the Duke 
of Mayenne.” 

But the Duke of Mayenne was al- 
ready in the court-yard, and the car- 
dinal in the antechamber. 

The King remarked their absence. 
u Then pass to Monsieur le Grand- 
Veneur,” said he. 

The duke signed, passed the pen to 
the Grand-Huntsman, and was about 
to withdraw.’ 

u Wait,” said the King. 

And while Chicot was taking the 
pen from Monsieur de Monsoreau, in 
a jeering manner, of course, while not 
only all the nobility present, but also 
all the heads of guilds convened on 
this great occasion, were preparing to 
sign after the King — and while thus 
an opportunity was given to every 
man, noble or not noble, of inscrib- 
ing his name in full on fly leaves, 
which were afterward to be inserted 
in the registers, the King was saying 
to the Duke of Guise : 

u Cousin, I believe that it was your 
advice to form an army with all the 
forces of the League, for the guard of 
our capital ? Now, the army is al- 
ready formed, and duly formed, for- 
asmuch as the natural commander of 
the people of Paris is the King. 5 ’ 
u Of course, Sire,” said the Duke, 
not very sure of what he was say- 
ing. 

a But, I do not forget,’ continued 
the King, u that I have another army 
to command, and that its command 
belongs of right to the first soldier in 
the kingdom. Accordingly, while I 
take the command of the League, do 


you go and take the command of the 
army, cousin.’’ 

u When shall I set out, Sire ?’ 
asked the duke. 

u Immediately,” replied the King. 

u Henry, Henry,” cried Chicot, 
who was only prevented by the cere- 
monial, from rushing forward and 
stopping the King in the midst of his 
harangue, and indeed, as it was, he 
was strongly inclined to do so. 

Meanwhile, as the King did not 
hear him, or if he heard him, did 
not understand him, he made his way 
reverentially, with a huge feather in 
his hand, close up to the monarch. 

u Will you shut up, twice told 
fool !” he whispered in his ear. 

But it was too late. The King, as 
we have seen, had already made the 
appointment, and was in the act of 
handing to the Duke of Guise his 
commission, already signed and 
sealed. The inhibitive signs and 
grimaces of the Gascon were conse- 
quently of no avail. 

The Duke of Guise took his com- 
mission, and departed. 

The cardinal was waiting for hira 
at the door of the hall, and the Duke 
of Mayenne was waiting for them 
both at the gate of the Louvre. 

They instantly mounted their 
horses, and ten minutes had not 
elapsed, before they were both out of 
Paris. 

The remainder of the assembly 
gradually dispersed with cries of — 
long live the King — or, hurrah for 
the League ! 

u It must be admitted,” said Hen- 
ry, laughing, u that I have* solved a 
great problem.” 

u Oh, yes,” murmured Chicot, 
u you are a famous mathematician.” 

u You see,” resumed the King, 
u that by making the rascals cry op- 
posite things, I have made them cry 
the same thing.” 

u Stci bene /” said the Queen-mo- 
ther to Henry, squeezing his hand. 

u Hear her!” said the ^Gascon. 
“ She thinks the Guises are down for 
ever.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU 


237 


u Oh, Sire,” cried the favorites, 
crowding round the King, u what a 
sublime genius your Majesty pos- 
sesses !” 

u They think that it will now rain 
money like manna,” whispered the 
Gascon to the King. 

Henry was escorted back to his 
room in triumph ; in the midst of the 
train which followed and accompanied 
the King, Chicot acted the part of a 
Diogenes of old, and kept finding 
fault with the King’s performance. 

This persistence on the part of 
Chicot in reminding the demi-god of 
the hour that he was but a man, 
struck the King so forcibly, that he 
dismissed his followers and attend- 
ants, and remained alone with Chicot. 

u Look you here, Master Chicot,” 
said Henry, turning to the Gascon, 
u do you know that you are never 
satisfied, and that you are getting to 
be very tiresome ? ’Sdeatli, I do 
not ask for flattery, but for good 
sense.’* 

u You are quite right, Henry,” 
said Chicot, u for the latter is what 
you most want.’’ 

u Admit, at least, that I played 
my part well.” 

u That is precisely what I cannot 
admit.” 

u Ha, art thou jealous, Monsieur 
le Roi de France ?” 

u I ? Heaven forbid ! I am not 
apt to be jealous of what I do not 
value.” 

u Corbleu , Master Fault-finder.” 
u Oh, the blind vanity of man !” 
u Come, am . I not King of the 
League 

u Certainly you are : that cannot 
be denied. But ” — 
u But what ?” 

a You are no longer King of 
France.” 

u And who is King of France ?” 
u Every one, except yourself, Hen- 
ry. Y our brother in the first place.” 
“ My brother! What brother?” 
u My lord of Anjou, parbleu /” 
u My prisoner ?” 

c Yes, for prisoner though he be, 

19 


he is an anointed King, and you are 
not.” 

u By whom anointed ?” 
u By the Cardinal of Guise. Talk 
to me no more about your police. 
A king is annointed in Paris in the 
presence of thirty-three witnesses — 
at the very altar of the church of 
Sainte-Genevieve, and you know 
nothing about it !’* 
u Bah, do you ?” 
u Certainly I do.” 
u How can you know what I do 
not ?” 

u Because you get your police busi- 
ness done by Monsieur de Morvil- 
liers, and I do mine myself.” 

The King knit his brows. 
u Thus we have for' King of France 
— without counting Henry of Valois 
— we have Francis of Anjou; and 
then we have — -let us see,” said Chi- 
cot, with the air of a man trying to 
be correct in his enumeration — u we 
have, beside, the Duke of Guise.” 
u The Duke of Guise !” 
u The Duke of Guise, Henry of 
Guise, Henry the Balafre. I say 
again, that we have, beside, the Duke 
of Guise.” 

u Very much of a King, truly ! A 
man whom I have just exiled and sent 
to the army.” 

u Most wise ! Just as if you your- 
self had not been exiled to Poland ! 
Just as if La Charite were not nearer 
to Paris than Cracovia was ! Of 
course, you have sent him to the 
army, and therein consists the su- 
perior wisdom of this day’s proceed- 
ings. You have sent him to the 
army, that is to say, you have placed 
thirty thousand men under his com- 
mand ! Udsbuddikins, and what an 
army ! A real army — not like your 
army of the League ! No, no — an 
army of citizens may do very well for 
Henry of Valois, the King of the 
mignons, but Henry of Guise will 
have an army of soldiers. And what 
soldiers ! Hardy veterans trained to 
war, and capable of eating up twenty 
armies of the League ! So that if 
Henry of Guise, from being Kiug d* 


2 m 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


facto , should take it one day into his 
head to become King by name, he 
would only have to turn round and 
give the word — i Forward ’ — and in 
a twinkling he could eat up Paris, 
Henry of Valois, and the Louvre 
with him ! Aye, and he is capable 
of doing it. I know the rogue.” 

“ You forget one thing in your ar- 
gument, illustrious statesman,” said 
Henry. 

“ Quite possible, especially if the 
point you mean to say I have forgot- 
ten is a fourth king.” 

“ No, but you forget,” said Henry, 
with an air of lofty disdain, “that he 
who dreams of being monarch of 
France, when he who actually wears 
the crown is a Valois, must look a 
little behind him — at his ancestors, 
for instance. I grant you that such 
an idea may have entered my lord of 
Anjou’s mind ; he is descended from 
the same race that I am myself, and 
his ancestors are my ancestors ; we 
may contend against each other, for, 
between us, it is a mere question of 
primogeniture. But, Monsieur de 
Guise — you know nothing of heraldry, 
Master Chicot, or you would know 
that the lilies of France bear the 
palm from the merlettes of Lorraine.” 
“Hey!” cried Chicot, “therein 
precisely lies your mistake, Henry.’’ 

“ My mistake ?” 

4 Yes, your mistake. Monsieur 
de Guise is better descended than 
you imagine.” 

“ Better than I am, perhaps ?” said 
Henry smiling. 

“There is no perhaps about it, 
little Henry.” 

“ You are raving, stark mad, Mon- 
sieur Chicot.” 

“ Such is my name.” 

“ Yes, raving, ridiculously raving. 
Go and learn to read, my good fel- 
low.” 

“ Well, Henry,” said Chicot, “ since 
you can read without going back to 
school, read this a little.” 

And saying so, Chicot drew from 
his breast the parchment on which 
Nicholas David had written out the 


genealogy that has already been men 
tioned in this history — that same ge- 
nealogy which had been despatched 
back from Avignon, after having been 
approved by the Pope, and which 
made Henry of Guise descend in a 
straight line from Charlemagne. 

O c 

Henry turned pale as soon as he 
cast his eyes on the parchment, and 
recognized near the signature of the 
legate the seal of St. Peter. 

“ What say you now, Henry ?” 
asked Chicot. “ The lilies are 
thrown a little into the background, 
methinks ? U dsbuddikins ! the merlet- 
tes seems to me to be ambitious of 
flying as high as the imperial eagle. 
Look out, my son.” 

“ How did you contrive to get pos- 
session of this genealogy ?”• 

“ I did not contrive, I never med- 
dle with such matters ; it came to me 
of itself.” 

“ Where was it before it came to 
you ?” 

“ Under a lawyer’s bolster.” 

“ What was the lawyer’s name ?” 

“ Master Nicholas David.” 

“ Where was he ?” 

“ At Lyons.” 

“ And who went to Lvons to take 
• * 

it from under the lawyer’s bolster?” 
“ A particular friend of mine.” 

“ What does your friend do ?” 

“ He preaches.” 

“ Then he is a monk ? ” 

“ Just so.” 

u And his name is — ?” 

“ Gorenflot.” 

“ What !” cried Henry, “ that 
abominable Leaguer who made the 
seditious speech at Sainte-Genevieve, 
and who insulted me by name, yester- 
day, in the streets of Paris ?” 

“ You remember the story of Bru 
tus acting the fool ?” 

“ Then your monk is a deep fel- 
low ?” 

“ Have you heard tell of a certain 
Signor Machiavelli, secretary to the 
Republic of Florence ? Your gran- 
dame was his pupil.” 

“ Then lie purloined the document 
from the lawyer r” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


289 


44 Purloined, indeed ! He took it 
from him by force.” 

44 From Nicholas David, the bully ?” 
44 From Nicholas David, the bully.” 
44 Then your monk is a brave fel- 
low.” x 

44 As brave as Bayard.” 

44 After such a performance, he 
should have applied to me for his 
reward.” 

u He has returned quietly to his 
convent, and only asks that it may be 
foro-otten that he was ever absent from 
it.” 

44 He is bashful, I see.” 

44 As bashful as Saint-Crepin.” 

44 Chicot, by the faith of a gentle- 
man, your friend shall have the first 
vacant abbey,” said the King. 

44 Thank you in his name, Henry. 
Well,” said Chicot, 44 he is now 
between Mayenne and Valois — be- 
tween a rope and a prebend. Will 
he end by being hung, or by being 
made a prior ? Who can tell ? At all 
events, if he is still asleep his dreams 

must be rather strange.” 

‘ 


CHAPTER XI. 

ETEOCLES AND POLYNICES. 

/ 

The day of the inauguration of 
the League closed as brilliantly and 
as tumultuously as it had commenced. 

The King’s friends made a jubilee 
of it ; and the preachers of the 
League, by way of preliminary to the 
canonization of brother Henry, began 
| to discourse, as had been done in a 
former age, in the cafe of Saint- Mau- 
rice, of the warlike deeds of Henry 
of Valois, whose youth had been dis- 
tinguished for rare military prowess. 

The favorites said — 4 4 The lion is 
at last roused from his lair.” 

The Leaguers said — 4 4 The fox has 
at last smelt the trap.” 

And as the distinguishing trait of 
the French character is self-esteem — 
as Frenchmen cannot tolerate chiefs 


of an inferior order of intelligence, 
the very conspirators themselves were 
well pleased that their King had got 
the better of them. 

True, the chief conspirators had 
betaken themselves to places of 
safety. 

The three Lorraine princes, as has 
been seen, had left Paris post-haste, 
and their agent, Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau, was preparing to leave the 
Louvre, to go in pursuit of the Duke 
of Anjou. 

But just as he was going out, Chi- 
cot went up to him. The palace was 
empty, and the Gascon had no longer 
any fears for his King. 

44 Where are you going in such 
haste, Monsieur le Grand- Veneur ?” 
he asked. 

44 To join his Highness,” answered 
the count, briefly. 

44 To join his Highness !” 

44 Yes ; I feel rather uneasy about 
his Highness. We have come on evil 
times, and princes may not travel 
without a good escort.” 

44 And then,” said Chicot, 44 he is 
brave, even to rashness.” 

The Grand-Huntsman looked at 
Chicot. 

44 In fact,” added the latter, 41 if 
you feel uneasy, so do I, &nd much 
more uneasy than you.” 

44 About whom ?” 

44 About his said Highness.” 

44 Why?” 

44 Know you not what people say?” 
44 People say that he has left Paris,” 
returned the Grand-Huntsman. 

44 They say that he is dead,” whis- 
pered Chicot, in hollow tones. 

44 Bah !” said Monsoreau, with an 
intonation of surprise not exempt 
from joy, 44 you said that he had gone 
on a journey.” 

44 When I said so, I believed it, 
and I believed it, because I had been 
told it. I am so credulous and un- 
suspecting, that I believe in every 
tale I hear : but now, you must know 
that 1 have reason to believe that if 
the poor prince is gone on a journey 
it is to the other world.” 




290 


DIANA OF MERIDOR • OR, 


u V? hat puts such a dreadful idea 
into your head ?” 

u He returned to the Louvre, last 
night, did he not r” 

u To a certainty. I waited on him 
my self.’ ’ 

u Well, he has not been seen to 
leave it.” 

u The Louvre ?” 
u The Louvre.” 
u And Aurilly ?” 
u Missing.” 

u And his attendants ?” 
a Missing, missing, all missing.” 
u You are joking, are you not, Mon- 
sieur Chicot r” said the Grand-Hunts- 
man. 

U A q ]r V 

“ Whom ?” 

“ The King.” 

u The King is not to be question- 
ed.” 

u Bah ! There is a way.” 
u I shall make the attempt. I can- 
not remain in doubt on such a sub- 
ject.” 

And so leaving Chicot, or rather 
walking before him, he proceeded to 
the King’s cabinet. 

o 

His Majesty had just gone out. 
u Where is the Kinggone ?” asked 
the Grand-Huntsman, u I have to 
make a report to him, touching cer- 
tain orders he gave me.” 

u To call on the Duke of Anjou,” 
was the answer. 

u To call on the Duke of Anjou,” 
said the count to Chicot. u Then, 
the prince is not dead !” 

u Ha !” exclaimed the Gascon, 
u my opinion is, that he is, at least, 
as good as dead.” 

The Grand-Huntsman’s percep- 
tions were beginning to get strangely 
confused. It was quite positive that 
the prince had not left the Louvre ; 
certain words that he heard dropped 
here and there convinced him of 
at. 

Now, as he was ignorant of the 
reason of the prince’s disappear- 
at so important a juncture, it 
ished him beyond measure, 
e King had really gone to call 


on the Duke of Anjou, and as the 
Grand-Huntsman, notwithstanding 
his eagerness to learn what was trans- 
acting in the prince’s apartment, 
could not intrude where the Kinor 

o 

was present, he was compelled to 
wait for the news in the galleries. 

It has been stated that in order to 
enable the four minions to attend at 
the royal sitting, they had been re- 
lieved from their post by a guard of 
Suisses, but as soon as the ceremony 
had terminated, such was their desire 
to render themselves disagreeable to 
the prince by relating to him the 
King’s triumph, that overcoming 
their natural distaste for the dull 
and tiresome occupation of mounting 
guard, they had resumed their re- 
spective posts, Schomberg and D’- 
Epernon in the waiting room, and 
Maugiron and Quelus in the inner 
chamber with the prince. 

It is needless to say that weary 
were the hours that Francis passed ; 
to his lonely misery was superadded 
the most dreadful apprehensions of 
the fate that was reserved for him, 
and it must be confessed that the 
conversation of his guards was not 
calculated to relieve them. 

u I say, Maugiron,” remarked 
Quelus, from one end of the room to 
the other, and just as if the third 
person was not present, u it is only 
within the last hour that I begin to 
appreciate our friend V alois. Really, 
he is a profound statesman.” 

u Explain yourself,” replied 
Maugiron, stretching himself on a 
sofa. 

u The King spoke out touching 
the conspiracy ; therefore he has been 
for some time fully informed. If he 
has been for some time fullv informed 
and has kept his thoughts to himself, 
it must have been because he feared 
the said conspiracy. And, if he has 
now spoken out, it is because he fears 
it no longer.” 

u Logical,” replied Maugiron. 
u If he fears it no longer, it fol- 
lows that he intends to punish it. 
You know Valois; he possesses a 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


291 


number of sinning qualities, but 
clemency is certainly not one of 
them.” 

u Granted.” 

u Now, if he punishes the said 
conspiracy, it will be with the for- 
mality of a trial ; and if there be a 
trial, we shall have the pleasure of 
witnessing a second performance of 
the tragedy of Amboise, without 
going out of our way.” 

u Delightful anticipation.” 
u Yes, and we shall be sure of our 
places, unless — ” 
u Unless what ?” 

u Unless — the thing is possible — 
unless, indeed, considering the posi- 
tion of the accused, judicial forms 
be laid aside, and the whole affair be 
performed behind the door.” 

u I am of opinion that such will be 
the case,” said Maugiron. u Family 
matters are usually transacted in 
private, and this last conspiracy is in 
all respects a family matter.” 

Aurilly glanced uneasily toward 
the prince. 

u Faith,” added Maugiron, u I 
know one thing ; which is, that were I 
in the King’s place, I would not spare 
the big fellows. It is quite clear, 
that because they can be, and are, 
twice as guilty as the others, they 
think that they may conspire with im- 
punity when they please. I would just 
tie one or two of them up, and drown 
the remainder. The Seine is deep 
just beneath the Tour de Nesle, and 
upon my honor, if I were King, I 
would not resist the temptation.” 
u In that case,” said Quelus, u I 
opine that it would not be amiss to 
revive the famous contrivance of the 
sacks.” 

u What contrivance was that ?” 
asked Maugiron. 

U A royal whim of the year 1350, 
or thereabout. Thus the thing was 
done : a man was tied up in a sack, j 
with three or four cats for his com- 
panions, and the sack, with its load, 
was then thrown into the water ; cats, 
you know, cannot bear anything in the 
shape of water ; the grimalkins in the j 


sack would fall on the man, and then 
would ensue certain results which, un- 
fortunately, no one could witness.” 
u Truly,” said Maugiron, u thou 
art deeply versed in history, and thy 
conversation is most interesting.” 
u This contrivance could not be 
applied to the leaders ; leaders can 
always claim the benefit of public 
decapitation, or of assassination in 
some corner. But, as for the small 
fry, and by small fry I mean favorites, 
squires, stewards, lute-players.” 
u Gentlemen,” stammered Aurilly, 
pale with terror. 

u Say nothing, Aurilly,” said 
Francis, u what you hear does not 
regard me, and consequently does not 
regard my household. French princes 
of the blood are not to be ieered 
at.” 

u No, they are treated more serious- 
ly,” said Quelus ; u we cut their heads 
off. Louis XI. did not deny himself 
the latter pleasure, as in the case, for 
instance, of the Duke of Nemours.” 
The minions had reached this point- 
in their conversation, when a noise 
was heard in the antechamber ; the 
door opened, and the King appeared 
on the threshold. 

Francis rose. 

u Sire,” he cried, u I complain to 
your Majesty of the unworthy treat* 
ment I receive at the hands of your 
people.” 

But Henry gave no sign of having 
either seen or heard his brother. 

u Good day, Quelus,” said he, kiss- 
ing his favorite on both cheeks — 
u good day, child ; it does my soul 
good to see you ; and you, Maugiron, 
how goes it ?” 

u I am tired to death, Sire,” said 
Maugiron. u When I undertook to 
keep guard over your brother, I 
thought that he was a more entertain- 

O 

ing prince than I find him to be. Out 
upon it, what a tiresome prince ! Is 
he really your father’s son ?” 

u Sire, you hear,” said Francis, 
u does it enter into your royal inten- 
tions that I should be thus insulted r” 
u Silence, sir,” said Henry, with- 


202 


DIANA OF MERIDOh OR 


out turning round : u it does not | 
please me to receive complaints from 
my prisoners.” 

u Prisoner as much as you please, 
hut the prisoner is not the less your — ” 
u The title you invoke is precisely 
what loses you in my estimation. A 
guilty brother is thrice guilty.” 
u But if he be not guilty ?” 

“ Pie is.” 

u Of what, prince ?” 
u Of having offended me, Sir.” 
u Sire,” said the humiliated prince, 
Ci is there need that our family quar- 
rels should have witnesses ?” 

u You are right. Gentlemen — 
friends — I would hold a few minutes’ 
private conversation with my brother.’’ 
u Sire,” whispered Quelus, u it 
will not be prudent for your Majesty 
to remain alone with two of your Ma- 
jesty’s enemies.” 

u I will take Aurilly with me,” 
whispered Maugiron in the other ear. 

The two gentlemen carried away 
Aurilly, who was burning with anx- 
iety and curiosity. 

u We are now alone,” said the King. 
u I have been waiting impatiently 
for this opportunity, Sire.” 

u So have I. Ha ! you aim at my 
crown, my worthy Eteocles ; and, as 
the crown was your aim, so the League 
was your instrument. So you had 
yourself anointed in a corner of Paris, 
in an out of the way church, that you 
might charm the people with a brow 
moistened with the sacred oil.” 

u Alas,” said Francis, who saw 
that the King’s anger was gaining on 
him, u your Majesty will not let me 
speak !” 

u Why should I ?” said Henry. 
u That you might tell me what is 
false, or tell me what I know as well 
as you do ! But no, you would tell 
me what is false, for to confess your 
misdeeds would be to confess that you 
deserve death ! You would lie, and I 
would spare you the shame of doing 
so!” 

u Brother, brother,” cried the dis- 
tracted prince, u why thus outrage 


u If what I say can be regarded as 
an outrage, then it is I who lie, and 
it will give me pleasure to find that 1 
do lie. Come, speak — speak out ; I 
am a willing listener. Let me hear 
how you are not a disloyal subject, 
and, what is worse, a fool.” 

“ I know not to what your Majesty 
refers. It seems to me that your Ma- 
jesty is amusing yourself by speaking 
riddles to me.” 

u Then I shall explain my words to 
you!” cried Henry, in a threatening 
voice, which rang with terrible effect 
in the ear of his listener. u You 
have conspired against me, as former- 
ly you conspired against my brother 
Charles ; only, formerly, it was to 
assist the King of Navarre, while now 
it is to assist the Duke of Guise. 
Admirable project, which would have 
given you a famous place in the his- 
tory of usurpers ! True, that in those 
days, you crept like the snake, while 
now you would spring like the lion ! 
Then perfidiousness, now open vio- 
lence ; then poison, now the sword !” 
“ Poison ! what mean you, sir,” 
cried Francis, pale with rage and ter- 
ror, and like that Eteocles to whom 
Henry had^ compared him, endeavor- 
ing to spy a place where, in default 
of the bowl or the dagger, he could 
strike him with his flaming looks. 
u What poison ?” 

u The poison with which you killed 
our brother Charles — the poison which 
you intended for your confederate, 
the King of Navarre. Your poison 
is but too well known ; our mother 
has used it often enough. This, no 
doubt, is the reason why you have 
relinquished the use of it in my case : 
this is the reason why you have sought 
to attain your ends as a military com- 
mander, as the commander of the 
militia of the League. But, look at 
me well in the face, Francis,” con- 
tinued Henry, advancing toward his 
brother with a threatening look, 
u and convince yourself that a man 
of your stamp can never acquire the 
power of life and death over a man 
like me !” 


I 


THE LADY OF 

Francis staggered under the weight 
of this terrible attack ; but, without 
regard, without mercy for his prisoner, 
the Khm resumed. 

O 

u Ha, you would use the sword, 
would you ? I should like to see you 
sword in hand alone with me in this 
room. I have already surpassed you 
in cunning, Francis; for it was by 
tortuous paths that I myself reached 
the throne of France ; but, tortuous 
though they were, I had to ride over 
the bodies of a million of Poles. 
That was something. If you will be 
a rogue, be a distinguished rogue : if 
you would imitate me, do so, but not 
by making me appear inferior to what 
I was and am. . My intrigues are 
royal, and I commend my cunning to 
you as not unworthy of a military 
commander. Again, I tell you, that 
in cunning you are beaten, and that 
in a fair fight you would be sure to 
be killed. Therefore, from this forth, 
give up all idea of contending against 
me, either in one way or the other ; 
for, from this forth, I shall act the 
part of a King, master and despot. 

I shall watch your dubious career — I 
shall follow you to your most private 
haunts, and let me but doubt your 
entire submission to my will, and I 
shall grasp your weak body in my 
strong hand, and cast you quivering 
beneath the axe of my headsman. 

u This much I had to say to you, 
brother, touching family matters ; 
and for this reason I was desirous of 
seeing you privately. I shall now 
order my friends to leave you by 
yourself to-night, in order that you 
may have an opportunity of reflect- 
ing on my words. If solitude be 
favorable to reflection, it must be so 
particularly in the case of a prisoner.” 

u And so,” murmured the duke, 
u from mere whim or ill-humor, or 
because your Majesty has been trou- 
bled bv some dream, I am fallen into 
your disgrace ?” 

u Better than that, Francis — you 
are fallen into the hands of the King’s 
justice.” 

4 But at least, Sire, fix a term to 


MONSOREAU. 293 

i 

my captivity, that I may know what 
I have to expect.” 

u When you hear your sentence 
read, you will learn what to expect.” 
u My mother ! May 1 not see my 
mother r” 

u What for ? There were only 
three copies in the world of the cele- 
brated treatise on hunting which my 
poor brother Charles devoured — yes, 
devoured, is the word — and of the 
other two, one is in Florence, and 
another in London. Beside, I am 
not a Nimrod, like my poor brother 
Farewell, Francis.” 

Overwhelmed by this last blow, 
Francis sank on a chair. 

u Gentlemen,” said the King, re- 
opening the door, u my lord the Duke 
of Anjou has requested my permis- 
sion to be allowed to reflect to-night 
on an answer which he is to make to 
me to-morrow. You will, therefore, 
leave him in his room alone, and only 
visit him from time to time by way 
of precaution. l r ouwill perhaps find 
the prisoner a little excited by the 
conversation we have just had toge- 
ther, but remember, that in conspir- 
ing against me, my lord of Anjou 
relinquished all claim to be treated 
as my brother ; consequently, he is 
nothing more than your prisoner. 
Let there be no ceremony : should 
the captive prove disobedient, inform 
me of it : I have the Bastille at hand, 
and in the Bastille Master Laurent 
Testu, the first man in the world for 
taming rebellious humors.” 

u Sire, Sire !” stammered Francis, 
u recollect that I am your ” — 

u You were also Charles IX.’s bro- 
ther, if I err not,” said Henry. 

u At least give me back my ser- 
vants, my friends.” 

u You have no - ,^»on to complain. 

I deprive myself of my own to give * 
them to you.” 

With these words Henry closed 
the door in his brother’s face. The 
prince drew back ; his tottering limbs 
refused him support, and he sank, 
pale, agitated, and unnerved, into 
the nearest chair. 


294 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


CHAPTER XII. 

HOW IT MAY BE THAT A MAN SHALL 

NOT ALWAYS LOSE HIS TIME BY 

RUMMAGING IN OLD DRAWERS. 

The scene which had just passed be- 
tween the duke and the King induced 
the former to regard his position as 
very desperate. The minions had 
taken care to inform him fully of 
what had occurred at the Louvre ; 
they had represented the defeat of 
the Guises and Henry’s triumph as 
greater than they were in reality : 
he himself had heard the people cry- 
ing what, at the time, was incompre- 
hensible to him, namely, 66 Long live 
the King ; huzza for the League.” 
He felt that, compel 1 ed to look out 
for their own safety, the principal 
leaders had left him in the lurch. 
Forsaken by his family — a family 
that had been decimated by assassina- 
tions, and always divided by discords 
and resentments — he sighed when he 
looked back to that past which had 
been called up by the King, and was 
reminded that in his contest against 
Charles IX. he had for confidants, or 
rather for tools and dupes, Coconnas 
and La Mole, whose bright and keen 
swords were always ready to leap 
from their scabbards at his bid- 
ding. 

Regret for certain lost advantages 
is the substitute for remorse in most 
consciences. 

For the first time, feeling himself 
lonely and forsaken, my lord of 
Anjou experienced something like re- 
morse for having sacrificed La Mole 
and Coconnas. 

In those days, his sister Margaret 
loved and comforted him. How had 
he rewarded her . 

« There remained his mother, Queen 
Catherine ; but his mother had never 
loved him. She had never used him 
otherwise than she had used others, 
that is to say, as an instrument. 
And Francis did not deceive himself. 
He knew that, once in his mother’s 
hands, he was no more his own mas- 


ter than is the ship its own master 
when tossed by the ocean tempest. 

He bethought himself that it was 
only the other day there was one 
priceless heart on which he could have 
relied. 

Bussy, brave Bussy, stood before 
him. 

Oh, it w T as then that the feeling, 

' • • o’ 

awakened in Francis, really resembled 
remorse ; for he had disobliged Bussy 
to gratify Monsoreau, because Mon- 
soreauknew his secret, and now, be- 
hold ! this secret known to the King, 
and, consequently, no secret ! So 
that Monsoreau was no longer a man 
to be feared. 

He had, therefore, quarrelled with 
Bussy uselessly and gratuitously ; an 
act which a great statesman has since 
declared to be worse than a crime ; 
that is to sav, to be a fault. 

What an advantage it would have 
been for the prince, in the position in 
which he was placed, to have known 
that Bussy — grateful Bussy, and, con- 
sequently, faithful Bussy — was watch- 
ing over him ; Bussy, the invincible, 
high-hearted Bussy — Bussy, the gene- 
ral favorite, inasmuch as he had a 
true heart and a strong arm, and be- 
cause the man who has received the 
one from fortune and the other from 
heaven, is always sure of many friends. 

Bussy, watching over him, was not 
only equivalent to probable liberty, 
but also to certain revenge. 

But Bussy, wounded in the tender- 
est point, had retired, full of resent- 
ment, to his tent, and the prisoner 
remained with a distance of fifty feet 
to clear before he could reach the 
moat, and with four minions to dis- 
arm before he could reach the gallery, 
without taking into calculation 
that the yards were full of Suisses, 
and soldiers of all arms. 

From time to time, he would draw 
nigh the window, and gaze anxiously 
at the moat below ; but an altitude 
of fifty feet was capable of shaking the 
nerves of the bravest, and my lord of 
Anjou was far from being a man of 
iron nerve. 








THE LADY OF MONSOREJLU. 


Besides, from time to time, the 
prince was visited by one of his 
guards, by Schomberg, by Maugiron, 
by D’Epernon, or by Quelus. These 
gentlemen laid themselves under no 
restraint in the prince’s presence ; 
sometimes, indeed, they took not the 
slightest notice of him, opening doors 
and windows, rummaging drawers and 
boxes, looking under beds and tables, 
and making sure that the curtains 
were all right, and that the bed- 
clothing had not been cut up into 
slips. 

Sometimes they would lean over 
the balcony and look down. There 
the great height was always sufficient 
to calm all apprehension of escape 
that way. 

u Faith,” said Maugiron, on his 
return from his last perquisition, u I 
give it up. I shall stir no more 
from the waiting-room, where, at least, 
we have the benefit of the visits of 
our friends during day, and as for the 
night, my lord of Anjou will have to 
let me sleep in peace. He can take 
care of himself !” 

u It is easy to see,” said D’Eper- 
non, u that ve know little about our 
duty, and that we have been always 
officers and never soldiers. We real- 
ly have misunderstood our orders !” 
u Explain !” said Quelus. 
u What did the King tell us ? 
Why, to guard the person of the 
prince — he did not tell us to regard 
it.” 

u Beside,” said Maugiron, u al- 
though he is a very good thing to 
keep, lie is not a very pretty thing to 
look at.” 

u All this is very well,” said 

Schomberg, u but let us not relax our 

vigilance. The rogue is cunning.” 

u He may be,” said D’Epernon, 

( but he will have need, it seems to 

me, of something more than cunning 

to over the bodies of four such 
% 

built fellows as ourselves.” 

As D’Epernon said these words, he 
straightened himself up, and twisted 
his fingers in his mustache in a very 
superb style. 


I 


295 

u True,” said Quelus. 

“Bah!” said Schomberg. u Do 
you imagine that my lord the Duke of 
Anjou is silly enough to attempt his 
escape by the gallery ? No, if he 
tries at all, it will be through a hole 
in the wall.” 

u He has no tools wherewith to 
make one.” 

u No, but he has the window,” 
said Schomberg, diffidently, for he re- 
collected having himself measured the 
distance of the moat. 

u Ha ! the windows !” cried D’Ep- 
ernon, u most ingenious Schomberg! 
The windows, forsooth. Do you 
mean to say that any man would ven- 
ture to jump fifty feet ?” 

u I confess that fifty feet — ” 
u And then, our man limps; and 
beside, he is heavy ; and beside, he is 
as timorous as — ” 

u Yourself,” said Schomberg. 
u My dear fellow,” said D’Epernon, 
u you know that I am not afraid of 
phantoms. Pshaw ! that is a mere 
affair of the nerves.” 

u Perhaps,” said Quelus gravely, 
u the spirits of all those whom he has 
killed in duels have appeared to him 
on the same night.” 

u Do not let us jest,” said Maugi- 
ron, U I have read anecdotes of won- 
derful escapes beyond number — with 
sheets, by way of example.” 

u Ah ! as to that, Maugiron’s 
observation is more sensible,” said 
D’Epernon. u I myself saw an in- 
stance at Bordeaux of a prisoner 
making his escape by means of his 
sheets.” 

u Look at that,” cried Schomberg 
u Yes,” replied D’Epernon, u but 
he had his loins broken, and his 
scull fractured. His sheet was some 
thirty feet too short, he was compelled 
to jump, so that the escape was com- 
plete. His body escaped from the 
prison, and his soul escaped from the 
body. ” 

a Well, when all is said, if he 
i should escape,” said Quelus, u that 
will give us a chase after a prince of 
the blood royal. We will pursue 




DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


*96 

him, we will track him out, and | 
while tracking him out, we will try 
to break something for him, without 
appearing to do anything of the 
kind.” 

u And then, Mordieu ! we shall 
have returned to our own proper 
sphere, we are hunters not gaolers.’’ 

This peroration appeared entirely 
conclusive, and they began to talk of 
other things, though they had de- 
cided, nevertheless, that from hour 
to hour they would persist in visiting 
the chamber of Monsieur d’ Anjou. 

The minions were perfectly correct 
in their opinion that the Duke d ’An- 
jou would never attempt to escape by 
open force, and that, on the other 
hand, he would never venture on any 
method of flight which should be 
perilous or difficult. 

It was not that he was deficient in 
imagination, that worthy prince, and 
we must even do him the justice to say 
that his imagination was prodigiously 
hard at work, as he walked to and fro 
from his bed to that famous cabinet, 
which was occupied during three or 
four nights by La Mole at the time 
when Marguerite sheltered him dur- 
ing the massacre of Saint Bartholo- 
mew . 

From time to time the pale face of 
the prince was pressed against the 
frame of the window, which over- 
looked the fosses of the Louvre, 
Beyond these fosses there extended a 
sandy slope some fifteen feet in width, 
and beyond the sandy slope, the 
Seine might be seen spreading out its 
broad waters through the gloom, 
tranquil and lucid as a mirror. 

On the farther brink, something 
which resembled a vast motionless 
giant stood erect in the gloom. It 
was the tower of Nesle. 

The Duke d’Anjou had watched 
the setting of the sun through all its 
phases. He had followed, with the 
interest which a prisoner attaches to 
sights of all kinds, the slow decline 
of light, and the stealthy approach of 
darkness. He had contemplated the 
sublime spectacle of ancient Paris, 


with its roofs gilded by the last rays 
of the setting sun, and, ere an hour 
had elapsed, silvered by the first 
beams of the rising moon. Then 
gradually he had felt a mighty, yet 
vague terror, creeping over him, as he 
saw huge purple clouds rolling up 
from the horizon, and announcing, as 
they mustered thick above the Lou- 
vre, the approach of a night-storm. 

Among his other weaknesses, the 
Duke of Anjou possessed that of 
trembling at the sound of thunder. 

Then he would have given much 
that the minions had kept him in 
sight, even if they had insulted him 
while on their duty. He could not 
resolve, however, to summon them ; 
that would have given too fair a field 
to their raillery. 

He cast himself upon his bed, but 
found it impossible to sleep. He en- 
deavored to read, but the letters 
seemed to dance before his eyes, like 
so many hideous devils. 

He tried to drink, but the wine 
was bitter to his palate. He ran his 
fingers over the chords of D’Aurilly’s 
lute, as it hung on the wall ; but he 
felt that the vibration of the string 
acted on his nerves to such a degree 
that he was on the verge of weeping. 

Then he began to swear like a hea- 
then, and to break everything within 
reach of his hands. It was a fault of 
the family, one to which they were 
accustomed at the Louvre. 

The minions opened a crevice of 
the door, to see whence this horrible 
sabbath of devils might proceed ; and 
then closed it again, when they per- 
ceived that it was only the prince 
amusing himself, thereby redoubling 
the rage of their prisoner. 

He had just finished breaking a 
chair to atoms, when a sharp clatter, 
the sound of which never can be mis- 
taken, a sharp, clear, glassy clattei 
was heard from the direction of the 
window, and, at the same moment, 
Mons. d’Anjou felt a sharp pain in 
his hip. 

His first idea was that he was wound- 
ed by the shot of an arquebus, and 


i 


THE LAm OF MONSOREAU. 


that this shot had been aimed at him | 
by some emissary of the King. 

a Ah ! traitor ! ah ! coward !” cried 
the prisoner, u you have had me shot 
as you promised me that you would. 
Ah ! I am dead.” 

And he let himself fall at length 
on the carpet. 

But, as he fell, his hand came in 
contact with some object as hard as 
the bullet of an arquebus, but larger 
and more unequal. 

u Oh ! it is a stone,” he cried. 
u It must be the shot of a falconet, 
then. And yet I ought to have heard 
the explosion.” 

At the same time, he drew up his 
leg, and stretched it out again. Al- 
though the pain was acute at the mo- 
ment, it was clear enough that the 
prince had no bone broken. 

He picked up the stone, and ex- 
amined the pane of glass. 

The stone had been sent so forcibly 
that it had pierced the pane of glass 
without shattering it. 

It appeared also that the stone 
was wrapped in paper. 

Then the ideas of the duke assumed 
a different direction. This stone, in- 
stead of being hurled against him by 
an enemy, was probably a mission 
from a friend. 

The sweat burst from his brow. 
Hope, no less than terror, has its mo- 
ments of anguish. 

The duke drew near to the light. 

In fact a paper was rolled about, 
the stone, and retained in its place 
*>y a piece of silk fastened with seve- 
ral knots. The paper had evidently 
deadened in some degree the sharp- 
ness of the flint, or it would have 
hurt the prince yet more severely 
than it in truth had done. 

To break the silk, to unroll the 
paper, and to read what was written on 
it, occupied the duke less than a mo- 
ment. His spirits were revived in- 
stantaneously. 

And he read : 

u Are you weary of keeping your 
apartment ? Do you love liberty, and 
tiie free air ? If so, go into the closet, 


29“i 

in which the Queen of Navarre was 
wont to conceal your poor friend M. 
de la Mole. Open the cupboard, and 
on removing the ledge at its base, 
you will find a double bottom. In 
this double bottom, there is a silken 
ladder. Two vigorous arms will 
strain the ladder tight for your de- 
scent. At the bottom of the fosse a 
horse swift as thought will carry you 
whither you will.” 

u A Friend.” 

u A friend,” said the prince, u a 
friend ! ah ! I did not know that 1 
had a friend. Who can be this friend 
who thinks of me ?” 

And the duke reflected a few mo- 
ments, but he knew not on whom to 
fix his thoughts. He ran and looked 
out of the window, but saw no one. 

u Can it be a trap laid for me ?” 
murmured the prince, with whom fear 
was ever the first sentiment to be 
awakened. 

a But first of all,” he added, u I 
may as well ascertain whether the 
cupboard has a double bottom, and if 
in that double bottom there is a lad- 
der.” 

The duke, as soon as this thought 
occurred to him, without removing 
the lamp from its place, and relying, 
for the greater security, on the evi- 
dence of his hands alone, made hia 
way to that closet, the door of which 
he had so often opened with a throb- 
bing heart, when he expected to find 
there Madame the Queen of Navarre, 
whose dazzling beauty he perhaps ap- 
preciated more than became a bro- 
ther. 

This time, again, it must be con- 
fessed, his heart beat violentlv. 

He opened the closet by the aid of 
his hands alone, and examined all 
the boards of which it was composed, 
until, on reaching the lowest, he lean- 
ed somewhat heavily first on the front, 
then on the back, and lastly on one 
of the sides, when he discovered the 
plank which formed the swinging 
door, and turned upon a pivot. 

He immediately introduced his 
hand into the cavity, and felt the 


298 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ends of liis fingers in contact with 
a silken ladder. 

Like a robber who runs away with 
the booty he has won, so the duke 
fled into his chamber carrying his 
treasure with him. 

Ten o’clock struck, and the duke 
immediately recollected the visit 
which was paid to him every hour. 
He made haste, therefore, to conceal 
his ladder under the cushion of an 
arm-chair, and to sit down upon it. 

It was artistically made, so much 
so, that it was easily contained within 
the narrow space into which the duke 
had thrust it. 

In fact, five minutes had not elapsed, 
before Maugiron appeared at the door 
in his dressing-gown, having his drawn 
sword under his left arm, and a can- 
dlestick in his right hand. 

As he entered the room, and stood 
in the duke’s presence, he did not 
cease from his conversation with his 
friends. 

“ The bear is in its -rage,” said a 
voice without, “ it was breaking eve- 
rything to pieces a minute or two 
ago. Look out, Maugiron, or he will 
eat you up.” 

“ Insolent !” murmured the duke. 

u I believe your Highness did me 
the honor of addressing yourself to 
me,” said Maugiron, with an air and 
expression the most impertinent that 
can be imagined. 

The duke, who was ready to burst 
out into a fit of sudden rage, restrain- 
ed himself, considering that a quarrel 
would cause a loss of time, and would, 
perhaps, overthrow his chances of es- 
caping. 

He drowned his resentment, there- 
fore, and wheeling his arm-chair on 
its pivot, contrived to turn his back 
directly in the face of the young man. 

Maugiron, following the ideas which 
ho had derived from traditional es- 
capes, drew near the bed, in order to 
examine the sheets ; and to the win- 
dow, in order to satisfy himself that 

/ V 

the curtains had not been tampered 
with. He saw that a pane of glass 
had been broken ; but he thought it 


was the duke who had broken it thus 
in his rage. 

“Hola! Maugiron,” exclaimed 
Schomberg, “are. you eaten up al- 
ready. I do not hear you say a word. 
If that be the case, sigh, at least, in 
order that we may know what we have 
to do, in order to avenge you.” 

“No, no,” said Maugiron, while 
the duke plied his fingers, until the 
joints actually cracked in his impa- 
tience, “ no, no. My bear, on the 
contrary, is very quiet, and seems to 
be completely tamed.” 

The duke smiled silently in the 
darkness which concealed his face. 

As to Maugiron, without so much 
as even bowing to the prince, which 
was the very smallest show of polite- 
ness that was due to a lord so high 
and mighty, he went out of the room, 
and, having gone out, locked the door, 
and double locked it. 

The prince paid no manner of at- 
tention to him, while he was doing 
thus, but when the key had ceased to 
grate in the wards of the lock, 

“ Messieurs,” he murmured, u be 
on your guard, for a bear is a very 
cunning animal.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

VENTRE SAINT-GRIS. 

As soon as he was left alone, the 
Duke of Anjou, knowing that he had, 
at least, one hour of quiet left to him, 
drew out his silken rope-ladder from 
the cushion under which he had con- 
cealed it, unrolled it, examined every 
knot, tried the strength of every sep- 
arate rung, and satisfied himself of its 
soundness by the most prudent and 
minute precautions. 

“ The ladder is good,” said he, at 
length. “ And, in so far as it is con- 
cerned, it is not offered to me as a 
means whereby I shall break my 
ribs.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


299 


Then he unfolded the whole length | 
of it, and counted eight-and-thirty 
rungs, fifteen inches distant, the one 
from the other. 

u Come, the length also is sufficient, 
there is nothing to he feared on that 
score, either,” said he to himself. 

u Ah ! now then I think of it ; it is 
these cursed minions who send me this 
ladder. In case of my fastening it to 
the balcony, they will allow me to do 
so, and while I am in the act of de- 
scending it, they will come and cut 
the rope ; that is the stratagem, be- 
yond a doubt.” 

Then reflecting a moment longer : 
u No,” he said. u No, that is not 
possible. They cannot be such block- 
heads as to suppose that I should at- 
tempt to descend it without first bar- 
ricading the door ; and, with the door 
barricaded, they must know that I 
should have the time to escape before 
they could break it down. 

u And I will do so. I will do so, 
most assuredly, if I shall determine 
on flying. 

u And yet, how can I believe in 
the innocence of this ladder found 
thus in a cupboard belonging to the 
Queen of Navarre ? For, in a word, 
who in the world except my sister 
Marguerite can be aware of the ex- 
istence of this ladder ? 

*'• Let me consider,’’ he repeated, 
u who can this friend be ? The note 
is signed i a friend.’ Who is the 
Duke of Anjou’s friend, who knows 
so well the bottom of the cupboards 
in my apartment or in that of my sis- 
ter ?” 

The duke had scarce finished the 
reduction of this argument to set form, 
which seemed to be, in itself, so lo- 
gical, when, taking yet one more 
glimpse at its contents, in order, if 
possible, to recognize the hand-writ- 
ing, a sudden thought flashed upon 
him, and he almost cried u Bussy !” 
In fact, Bussy, the admired of so 
many ladies, Bussy, a hero in the 
eyes of the Queen of Navarre, who 
uttered, as she has herself left it 
stated in her memoirs, loud outcries 


whenever he fought a duel — Bussy, 
discreet, Bussy, well versed in the 
science of closets, Bussy, the only 
friend on whom he could place any 
reliance, it must be Bussy who had 
conveyed that note to him. 

And the perplexity of the prince 
became yet greater than it had been 
before. 

Everything, however, combined to 
lead the Duke of Anjou to the opi- 
nion that Bussy was the author of 
the note. The duke was ignorant of 
all the motives which the gentleman 
had for hating him, since he was ig- 
norant of the love he bore to Diana 
of Meridor. It is true, indeed, that 
j he suspected something of this, for, 
j having himself loved Diana of Meri- 
dor, he could understand how diffi- 
cult it must have been for Bussy to 
see that lovely young woman without 
loving her ; but this suspicion was 
so slight, that it vanished speedily 
before stronger probabilities. Bus- 
sy’s loyalty had not permitted him to 
remain idle while his master was held 
imprisoned. Bussy had been se- 
duced by the adventurous nature of 
the attempt itself ; nay, he had, per- 
haps, determined to avenge himself 
on the duke after his own fashion, 
that is to say, by restoring him to 
liberty. Away, then, with doubt. 
Bussy it was who had written to him ; 
Bussy who now awaited him. 

In order to satisfy himself yet more 
completely, the prince approached 
the window, and perceived through 
the mist which was rising from the 
river three oblong outlines, which he 
took to be horses, and at a little dis- 
tance from them two upright shadows, 
which resembled posts stuck into the 
sand, and which- he supposed must be 
two men. 

Two men, that was it. Bussy and 
his trusty Lc Haudouin. 

u The temptation is overpowering,” 
murmured the duke, u and the trap, 
if trap there be, is set too artistically 
that it should reflect any ridicule on 
me, if I should be taken in it.” 

Then Francis went and looked 


300 


DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


through the key-hole ; he saw his 
four guardians ; two were asleep, two 
others, having inherited Chicot’s 
chess-board, were busy playing at 
chess. 

He put out his light. 

Then he went to the window, and 
leaned out of it over the balcony. 

The gulf which he endeavored to 
penetrate with his eyes appeared even 
more fearfully formidable from the 
darkness. 

He recoiled from the edge. 

But air and space present an at- 
traction so irresistible to a prisoner, 
that Francis, as he returned into his 
chamber, fancied that he must be 
stifled. This sentiment prevailed 
with him so strongly, that something 
like disgust of life and carelessness 
of death passed through his mind. 

The prince was astonished, and 
almost began to fancy that he was 
growing brave. 

Then, taking advantage of that 
momentary excitement, he seized the 
silken ladder, fixed it to his balcony 
by the hooks of steel with which one 
of its ends was provided, then turn- 
ed to the door, which he barricaded 
to the best of his ability, and satis- 
fied that he had created an obstacle 
to overcome which they would be 
compelled to waste ten minutes — 
time amply sufficient to enable him 
to reach the bottom of the ladder — 
went back again to the window. 

Then he endeavored once more to 
distinguish the outlines of the men 
and horses ; but now he could see 
nothing of them. 

u 1 should prefer that,” he mur- 
mured ; u to fly alone is better than 
to fly in company with the most trusty 
friend, much more than with a friend 
who is unknown.” 

At this moment the darkness was 
total, and the first growling of the 
storm, which had been threatening 
for above an hour, began to re-echo 
through the sky. A vast cloud, with 
silvery edges, hung, in shape like to 
a couching elephant, over the river 
from side to side, its croupe toward 


the palace, and its trunx, strangexj 
contorted, bending down over the 
Tour de Nesle, and losing itself at 
the southern extremity of the city. 

A flash of lightning ran down, liko 
a vast crack, through the black cloud, 
and the prince thought he could per- 
ceive in the fosse, the figures for 
which he had sought to no purpose on 
the river banks. 

A horse neffihed beneath him. 

O 

There was a doubt no longer. He 
was waited for. 

The duke shook the ladder to see 
if it was attached firmly, then he 
strode over the balustrade, and set 
his foot on the first ring. 

No words can describe the terrible 
anguish which at that moment almost 
suffocated the prisoner, wavering be- 
tween the frail support of a miserable 
silken cord, and the mortal threats 
of his brother. 

Scarcely, however, had he set his 
foot on the first wooden rung, when 
he perceived that the ladder, instead 
of wavering under his weight, grew 
stiff and taut, as if it was drawn 
downward by a strong hand, and the 
second step presented itself firmly to 
his foot instead of wheeling about 
with the rotary motion which would 
have been natural to it. 

W as it a friend or an enemy who 
held the foot of it so strongly ? 
Were those hands open to receive 
him, or armed against his life, which 
awaited him at the base ? 

A terror almost irresistible took 
hold of Francis. He still clung to 
the balcony with his left hand, and 
now he made a motion as if to re- 
ascend. 

It would almost have seemed that 
the unknown person, who awaited the 
prince at the foot of the wall, di 
vined what was passing in his heart, 
for at that very moment a gentle pull 
upon the cords, very soft and very 
even, a sort of silken solicitation, 
ran up even to the feet of the prince. 

u Come, some one is holding the 
ladder at the bottom,” murmured the 
prince, “ they do not wish me to fall, 


THE LADY 6T MONSOREAU. 


301 


therefore Come, courage ! cour- 
age !” 

And he continued to descend. 
The two side ropes of the ladder were 
stretched, that they were as stiff as 
staves of wood ; and Francis could feel 
that care was taken to hold the rungs 
forward from the wall, so as to facili- 
tate the placing of his feet. 

Then he began to let himself glide 
down almost with the speed of an ar- 
row, running down by his hands 
rather than feeling the successive 
steps, and sacrificing the double lin- 
ings of his cloak to the rapidity of his 
descent. 

Suddenly, instead of touching the 
ground as he had expected, he felt 
himself caught up in the arms of a 
man, who whispered these words in 
his ear: 

“ You are saved.” 

Then he was carried along the re- 
verse of the fosse, and from thence 
was hurried along a way which had 
been contrived between the masonry, 
and the earth which had crumbled 
down from it. He at last arrived at 
the summit. On the summit another 
man awaited him, who seized him by 
the collar and drew him up, and then, 
having assisted his comrade in the 
like manner, ran before them, but 
almost double like an old man, to the 
bank of the river. 

The prince understood that it was 
now too late to recede, for the horses 
stood where he had first observed 
them, and he saw that he was entirely 
at the mercy of his rescuers. He ran 
to one of the three horses, and leaped 
on its back. Both his companions 
followed his example. Then the 
same voice which had already whis- 
pered to him once, spoke again, as 
laconically and as mysteriously as 
before : 

“ Spur,” it said. 

And all three set off at full gallop. 

“ Everything is well so far,” said 
the prince to himself, u let us hope 
that the conclusion will not belie the 
commencement of the adventure. 

“ Thanks! thanks ! my brave Bus- 


sy,” murmured the prince in a very 
low voice, to his right hand compa- 
nion, who was wrapped to the nose in 
a great brown cloak. 

“ Spur,” replied he from beneath 
his mantle ; and, himself setting the 
example, the three horses and the 
three riders flitted away like shadows. 

Thus they arrived at the great fosse 
of the Bastille, which they crossed by 
means of a bridge extemporised by 
the Leaguers, who, unwilling that 
their communications with their 
friends should be interrupted, had 
taken this method of facilitating their 
intercourse. 

Thence the three cavaliers galloped 
straight toward Charenton. The 
prince’s horse seemed to be borne on 
wings, he was so fleet and so easy. 

Suddenly his right hand compa- 
nion leaped the fosse, and darted 
away into the forest of Vincennes, 
saying, as laconically as before, to 
the prince, the one word, “Come.” 

The prince had no occasion to lift 
the noble horse on which he was 
mounted with the bridle, or to press 
it with his knees, for it cleared the 
fosse as eagerly as the other two had 
done, and, to the shrill neigh which 
it uttered as it sprang over the obsta- 
cle, a burst of sharp neighing replied 
from the depths of the forest. 

The prince endeavored to pull up 
his horse, imagining now that they 
were leading him into some ambus- 
cade. But it was all too late. The 
animal had dashed forward with so 
much eagerness that it no longer felt 
the bit ; but, seeing its companions 
slacken their speed, it relaxed its gal- 
lop likewise, and Francis then dis- 
covered, drawn up in military array, 
in a sort of small glade of the forest, 
eight or ten men on horseback, whose 
steel cuirasses betrayed them, silvered 
by the bright moon-beams. 

“Ho!” said the prince, “what 
does this signify, Monsieur ?” 

“ Ventre Saint- Gris /” said the 
man whom he had addressed, “ this 
I signifies that we are safe.” 

J “ You, Henry,” said the Duke of 


302 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR. 


Anjou, utterly astonished ; u are you! 
my liberator r” 

u Eh !” said the Bearnais, u where- 
fore should that astonish you, are we 
not allies ?” 

Then, casting his eyes around him 
in search of his other companion, he 
cried out : 

u Agrippa, where the devil are you ?” 
u 1 am here !” said D’Aubigne, who 
had not yet unclenched his teeth. 

Good ! this is the way to manage 
your horses, exactly. The rather, 
that you have so many of them.” 
u Come, come,” said the King of 
Navarre, u don’t scold ; provided only 
that there are two others, fresh and 
well rested, with which we may get 
over a dozen leagues at a single 
stretch, we want nothing more.” 
u But whither are you going to car- 
ry me, cousin ?” asked Francis, 
anxiously. 

u Wherever you please,” said 
Henry, u only, let us go quickly, for 
D’Aubigne is right, the King of 
France has stables better supplied 
than mine, and he is rich enough to 
kill twenty horses or so, if he takes it 
into his head to overtake us.” 

u In truth, am I at liberty to go 
whithersoever 1 please ?” asked Fran- 
cis. 

u Certainly, and I await your 
orders.” 

u Very well, to Angers then.” 
a You desire to go to Angers ? To 
Angers, be it then. That is true, 
there you are at home.” 
u And you, cousin ?” 
u I, oh ! I shall leave you when in 
sight of Angers, and shall spur on as 
fast as possible for Navarre, where 
my good Margot is waiting for me. 
She must be sadly bored by my ab- 
sence.” 

u And did no one know that you 
are here ?” asked Francis. 

u Not a soul ! I came to sell three 
of my wife’s diamonds.” 
u Ah ! very well.” 

“ And a little also, to learn 
whether the League was decidedly 
bent on ruining me.” 


u And you found that there was 
nothing in that ?” 

u Yes ! Thanks to you.” 
u How, thanks to me ?” 
u Why, certainly, it is to you I 
owe it. If instead of refusing to be 
the chief of the League, when you 
knew that it was directed against me, 
you had accepted the guidance of it 
and made common cause with my 
enemies, I should have been lost. 
Therefore, as soon as I learned that 
the King had punished you for your 
refusal, 1 swore that I would take you 
out of prison, and out of prison you 
are.” 

u Ever so simple,” said the Duke 
of Anjou to himself, “ in truth, it is 
almost a point of honor to deceive 

him.” 

u Go, cousin,” said the Bearnais, 
with a smile, u go into Anjou. Ah ! 
Monsieur de Guise, you think you 
have taken the city, but I send you 
rather a troublesome guest. Take 
heed to yourself.” 

And as the fresh horses, which Hen- 
ry had asked for, were brought up 
they both leaped into their saddles 
accompanied by D’Aubigne, who fol 
lowed them, scolding all the way 
They set off at full gallop. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FRIENDS. 

While Paris was boiling like the in- 
terior of a vast furnace, Madame de 
Monsoreau, escorted by her father, 
and two of those servants, w T ho in 
those days were hired like auxiliary 
forces, at so much the expedition, was 
on her way toward the Chateau of 
Meridor, by days’ journeys of ten 
leagues each. 

She also was beginning to taste that 
liberty which is so dear to those who 
have been suffering sickness or sorrow. 
The azure sky which overhung the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


303 


open country, compared to that 
threatening and murky vault of 
clouds which was ever suspended, 
like a veil of mourning crape, over 
the gloomy towers of the Bastille, 
the foli age of the woods already clad 
in their spring verdure, the wild wood 
roads losing themselves like meander- 
ing ribands in the deep forests, all 
appeared to her young and fresh, 
rich and new, as if she had really 
arisen from that coffin, in which her 
father believed that she had been 
buried. 

The old baron, also, had grown 
younger by twenty years. To look 
on him standing high in his stirrups, 
and spurring old Jarnac along, he 
might have been taken, even that no- 
ble old lord, for some bearded husband 
accompanying his youthful wife, and 
keeping amorous watch over her af- 
fections. 

We shall not undertake to describe 
their long journey. It had no other 
incidents to diversify it, but the 
rising and setting of the sun. Some- 

o o 

times, however, growing impatient at 
their slow progress, Diana would 
throw herself out of bed, while yet 
the moonlight was silvering the win- 
dows of her inn bed-chamber, would 
awaken the baron, break the heavy 
slumbers of the servants, and set 
forth in fair moonlight, to gain a few 
leagues’ distance on the journey, 
which the young lady began to imagine 
endless 

It would have been pleasant at 
other times to see her, when in full 
march, let all the rest of the caval- 
cade outstrip her — Jarnac, quite proud 
of out-travelling all the rest — -and 
then, when the servants had all gone 
past, pause alone in the rear upon 
some elevated ridge, whence she could 
look back over the deep valleys they 
had passed, and assure herself that 
no person was pursuing theni. And 
when the valley proved to be void and 
desert, when Diana had discovered 
only a few scattered flocks in the pas- 
turage, or the silent steeple of some 
country borough, rising afar off at the 

20 


end of the long straight causeway, 
she would canter on and overtake the 
rest, more impatient now than before. 

Then her father, who had followed 
her with a glance from the corner of 
his eye, would say, 

u Fear nothing, Diana.” 
u What should I fear, my father ?” 
u Were you not looking back, to 
see if Monsieur de Monsoreau were 
coming 

u Ah ! that is true. Yes. It was 
to see that, I was looking back.’’ 
Thus from fear to fear, from hope 
to deception, Diana reached the Cha- 
teau of Meridor, at the end of the 
eighth day, and was received on the 
draw-bridge by Madame de Saint- 
Luc, and her husband, who had be- 
come castillans during the absence of 
the baron. 

Then, there commenced, so far as 
those three persons were concerned, 
one of those pastoral modes of life, 
of which every man has dreamed, 
while reading Virgil, Longus, and 
Theocritus. 

The baron and Saint-Luc hunted 
from morning until night. At their 
horses’ heels, gallopped the yeomen 
prickers. Avalanches of hounds 
were seen to pour down from the 
hills in pursuit of some hare or fox, 
and when the thunder of the caval- 
cade passed away, and was lost in the 
woods, Joan and Diana, seated on the 
mossy grass, under the shadow of 
some tufted coppice, would arise from 
their seats, startled by the loud din 
of the chase, and then resume, un- 
heeding, their tender and mysterious 
conversation. 

u Tell me,” Joan would say, u tell 
all that befel you in the tomb, for 
you were dead indeed to us. Look, 
the eglantine casts us its last wreaths 
of flowery snow, an'd the elders scat- 
ter around us their rich perfumes. 
The sweet sunshine streams through 
the branches of the old oaks. Not a 
breath in the air, not a living being in 
the park, for the deer have all fled to 
their coverts, when they felt the earth 
tremble beneath the hurricane of the 


304 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


chase, and the foxes have very quick- 
ly retreated to their earths. Tell me, 
my little sister, tell me.” 
u What have I told you ?” 
u You have told me nothing. You 
are happy, therefore — and yet, oh ! 
yet that beautiful eye, drowned in lan- 
guid melancholy, that pearly pale- 
ness of your cheek, that uncertain 
twinkling of your eyelids while your 
lips attempt a smile, which never is 
completed — oh ! Diana, I am sure 
that you have much to tell me.” 
u Nothing, nothing.” 
u You are happy, then — with Mon- 
sieur do Monsoreau.” 

Diana shuddered. 

u You see it, now,” said Joan, with 
an air of tender reproach. 

^ u With Monsieur de Monsoreau !” 
repeated Diana. u Wherefore did 
you pronounce that name ? Where- 
fore have you evoked that phan- 
tom from the midst of our woods, 
from the midst of our flowers, 
from the midst of our happi- 
ness ?” 

u Ah ! is it so ? Now then I 
know why your fine eyes are circled 
with heavy shadows, and why they are 
raised so often heavenward ; but I do 
not know why your lips try to force a 
smile.” 

Diana shook her head sorrowfully. 
u You told me, I think,” said Joan, 
passing her round white arm over 
Diana’s shoulders, u you told me that 
Monsieur de Bussy had taken much 
interest in you.” 

Diana blushed so deeply, that her 
small delicate ear appeared as if it 
had been suddenly set on fire. 

u Monsieur de Bussy is indeed a 
charming cavalier,” said Joan, and 
she hummed the air, 

lc The bravest of gallants, whatever the cause, 
The foremost of blades is the Lord of Am- 
borse.” 

Diana leaned her head upon the 
bosom of her friend, and murmured 
in a voice sweeter than that of the 
linnets which warbled among the cop- 
pices around them, 


“ Flower of faith and of courtesie, 
Tender and true is the brave — ” 

u Bussy ! speak it out, why don't 
you ?” said Joan, imprinting a joyful 
kiss on the eyes of her fair friend. 

u Enough nonsense,” said Diana, 
suddenly, u Monsieur de Bussy thinks 
not of Diana of Meri-dor.” 

u That is possible,” said Joan, 
u but I think, nevertheless, that he 
is tolerably agreeable to Madame de 
Monsoreau.” 

u Do not tell me so.” 
u Wherefore not — does it displease 
you ?” 

Diana made no answer. 
u I tell you that Monsieur de Bus- 
sy thinks not of me ; and it is well 
that he does not. Oh ! I have been 
very, very cowardly,” murmured the 
young woman. 

u What is that you are saying ?” 
u Nothing ; oh ! nothing.” 
u Come now, Diana, you are going 
to begin to weep, and to blame your- 
self again. You cowardly, you were 
compelled” — 

u I fancied so then. I saw perils, 
gulfs yawning beneath my feet. Now 
Joan, those dangers appear chimeri 
cal to me. Those gulfs, a child could 
have crossed them at a single stride. 

o 

Oh ! I was cowardly, I tell you ; 
wherefore had I not time for reflec- 
tion ?” 

u You are speaking in enigmas.” 
u No, it has not come to that as 
yet,” cried Diana, rising in great dis- 
order. u No, it is not my fault. It 
is he, who would not. I remember 
that the situation appeared to me ter- 
rible. I hesitated, I wavered. Mv 
father offered me his support, but I 
was afraid. iJe, he offered me his pro- 
tection ; but he did not so offer it as 
to convince me. The Duke d’ Anjou 
was against him. The Duke d’ An- 
jou hacLleagued himself with Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau you will say 
Well, what matters that ? 1 he Duke 

d’ Anjou, and the Count of Monso- 
reau ! When one is indeed bent upon 
anything, ah ! it is neither prince 
I nor master that can restrain her 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


305 


Look you, Joan, look you, if I once | 
loved’’ — and Diana, carried away by 
the excitement of her feelings, had 
leaned back against an oak, as if the 
soul had been too strong for her body, 
so that the clay could no longer con- 
fine the spirit. 

44 Come, come, be calm, my friend, 
and reason.” 

44 I tell you, that we have been 
cowardly.” 

44 We. Oh ! Diana, of whom are 
you speaking now ? — That we is elo- 
quent, my beloved Diana.” 

44 I meant my father and myself. 

I hope you understood me not other- 
wise. My father is a noble gentle- 
man, and might have spoken to the 
King. I am proud, and fear not the 
man whom I hate. But look you, the 
secret of my cowardice lies in this : I 

felt that he did not love me.” 

44 You are lying even to your own 
self!” cried Joan. 44 If you believe 
that, in the state at which you have 
now arrived, you would, and reproach 
him with it in person. But you do 
not believe it. You know to the con- 
trary, hypocrite that you are,” she 
added, bestowing a fond caress on her 
lovely friend. 

44 You are paid for believing in 
love,” said Diana, resuming her place 
near Joan. 44 You, whom Monsieur 
de Saint-Luc married in spite of a 
king ; you, whom he carried off from 
the midst of Paris ; you, whom they 
have perhaps pursued, and who pay 
him by your caresses, for proscription 
and exile.” 

44 And very richly he is paid for 
them both,” said the young lady 
archly. 

44 But I, reflect a little, and be not 
selfish. I, whom this impetuous 
} r oung man pretends to love ; I, who 
have fixed the affections of Bussy the 
invincible, the man who knows mp ob- 
stacles, I gave myself in marriage 
publiclj, I offered myself up, before 
the eyes of the whole court. I confick 
ed myself to him in th e cloisters of the 
Gypecienne, we were alone, he had 
w;th him Gertrude and Le Haudouin, 


both his accomplices, and myself more 
his accomplice than either. Oh ! 
now that I think of it, there was a 
horse at the church door, he could 
have carried me off in the folds of his 
mantle. At that moment, do you 
see, I perceived that he was suffering, 
that he was in agony on my account, 
I saw his eyes languid, his lips pale 
and wan with fever. If he had asked 
me to die in order to restore the 
light to his eye, or the freshness to 
his lips, I would have died willingly. 
Well ! I departed, and he never 
thought of holding me back by a 
corner of my veil. 

44 Wait, wait, yet awhile, for oh ! 
you know not what I suffer. I knew 
that I was leaving Paris ; he knew 
that I was returning toMeridor. He 
knew that Monsieur de Monsoreau — 
look you, I blush as I say it — that 
Monsieur de Monsoreau is not my 
husband ; he knew that I was coming 
home alone, and all along the road, 
dear Joan, I kept turning back, think- 
ing that every instant I heard the 
gallop of his horse behind us. Alas ! 
it was but the echoes of the road 
which spoke to me. I tell you that 
he thinks not of me ; that I am not 
worth the journey into Anjou; when 
there are so many lovely women in 
the court of France, one smile of 
whom would outweigh all confessions 
of a poor provincial lady, buried in 
the coppices of Meridor. Do you 
understand me now ? are you con- 
vinced ? am not I right ? am not I 
forgotten, scorned, despised, my be- 
loved Joan r” 

She had not well uttered these 
words, when the foliage of a huore 
oak rustled loudly ; a cloud of moss 
and plaster was shaken from the top 
of the old wall, and a man, leaping 
rapidly through the ivy wreaths and 
the wild mulberry trees, cast himself 
down at the feet of Diana. 

Joan had withdrawn a little. SI* 
had seen and recognized that man. 

44 You see that I am here,” mur- 
mured Bussy, on his kness, kissing 
the hem of Diana’s dress, while he 

4 7 


306 


DIANA OF AlERIDOR; OR, 


respectfully detained her by the trem- 
bling; hand. 

O 

Diana in her turn recognized the 
voice, the smile of the count ; and, 
smitten to the heart, almost beside 
herself, and suffocated as it were by 
that unexpected happiness, opening 
her arms she let herself fall, sense- 
less and almost inanimate, into the 
arms of him, whom but a moment 
before she had accused of indiffer- 
ence. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE LOVERS. 

Swoons which arise from joy are 
neither dangerous nor of long dura- 
tion. They have indeed been known 
to be fatal, but such has rarely been 
the case. 

Diana delayed then not long ere 
she opened her eyes, and found her- 
self in the arms of Bussy ; for Bussy 
had not chosen to cede to Madame de 
Saint-Luc the privilege of catching 
Diana’s first glance, as she should re- 
gain her self-possession. 

u Oh !” she murmured as she awoke, 
u oh ! this is frightful, count, to sur- 
prise me thus.’’ 

Bussy expected other words than 
these ; and who knows — men are not 
easily satisfied — who knows, we say, 
whether he did not expect something 
more than words, he who had so much 
experience in returns to life after 
swoons, and fainting fits ? 

CsBut, not only did Diana go no 
further, but withdrawing herseP 
gently from the arms which held h< 
captive, she returned toward h( 
friend, who had in the first instanc 
discreetly retired to the shelter of th 
trees ; and jfiien, curious as wome 
naturally are to be spectators of tha 
charming scene, the reconciliation c 
two lovers, had come back very gently 
not indeed to take part in the conver 


sation, but to hear all that should 
pass between the principal persons 
concerned. 

u Well, Madame,” asked Bussy, 
after a pause, u is it thus that you 
receive me ?” 

u No,” answered Diana, u for in 
truth that which you have done but 
now, Monsieur de Bussy, is affection- 
ate and tender — but — ” 

u Oh ! for pity’s sake, no huts,” 
replied Bussy, resuming his place at 
Diana’s feet. 

u No, no, not thus. Not on your 
knees to me, Monsieur de Bussy.” 
u Oh ! suffer me to implore you for 
a moment thus,’’ said the count, 
clasping his hands together, u 1 have 
so long coveted this place.” 

u Yes, but in order to come and 
take it, you have passed over the wall. 
Not only is this very unbecoming to 
a lord of your rank, but it is very 
imprudent, as regards those, to whom 
my honor should be dear.’’ 
u How so ?” 

a Supposing that by chance any one 
should have seen you.” 

u Who should have seen me ?” 
u Our hunters surely, who scarce a 
quarter of an hour since passed 
through the dingles behind that wall.”, 
u Oh ! be not alarmed on that 
head, Madame ; I hid myself too well 
to run any risk of discovery.” 

“ Hid yourself ! oh, in truth f” 
said Joan, u this is the very height of 
the romantic. Come, pell us all about 
it, Monsieur de Bussy.” 

u First of all, if I did not join you 
on the route it was not my fault. J 
took -road, and you another. 

You 'muillet, and 1 by 

C ten to me, and 

" Bussy is in 
Pd not dare 
no doubt 
I felt 
n love, 
worthy 
axtraor- 
n haste 
had no 
ng haste 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


307 


since you were with him. But it 
was not in the presence of your fa- 
ther, it was not in the company of 
your people that I wished to see you ; 
for 1 had more apprehension of com- 
promising you, than it appears you 
give me credit for. I travelled, there- 
fore, from halting-place to halting- 
place, biting upon the handle of my 
switch. During those days, indeed, 
the handle of my switch was my 
habitual diet.” 

u Poor young man !” said Joan. 
u And do you not see how lean he has 
grown in consequence ?” 

u You arrived at length. I took 
a lodging in the suburb of the town, 
and saw you pass, concealed myself 
behind a window-blind.” 

u Oh ! Mon Dieu /” asked Diana, 
u and did you stop at Angers under 
your own name ?” 

u For what then do you take me ?” 
said Bussy. u Not I indeed. I am 
a travelling shopkeeper. Do you not 
see my cinnamon-colored costume ? 

It will not betray me ; it is a color 
much affected by drapers aijd gold- 
smiths ; and then again I have an 
anxious and busy expression which 
would not misbecome a botanist in 
search of simples. In a word, no 
person has remarked me.” 

u Bussy, the handsome Bussy, two 
days in succession, in a small bo- 
rough town, and not remarked ; they 
never will believe that in court.” 
u Proceed, count,” said Diana, 
blushing deeply. u How do you come 
f hither from town ? I pray you tell 
me.” 

u I hav& two horses of the choicest 
breed ' I mount one of them ; I set 
forth from the town at a fool’s pace, 
stopping to read all the signs and 
placards ; but when I am once out of 
eye-shot, my horse springs to a gal- 
lop, which gets over the three leagues 
between Angers and Meridor in twen- 
ty minutes. I steer my course, and 
find the park wall ; but it is long ; 
very long, for the park is itself large. 
Yesterday, I explored that wall dur- 
ing more than four hours ; climbing | 


it here and there, and constantly hop- 
ing to discover you. At length, when 
1 was almost in despair, I discovered 
you near evening, at the moment 
when you were returning toward 
the house. The baron’s two great 
hounds were bounding after you, and 
Madame de Saint-Luc was holding 
up a partridge, which they were en- 
deavoring to catch. Then you passed 
out of my sight into the house. 

u I leaped over the wall. I ran to 
this spot, where I found the grass and 
moss trampled down and broken. 
Thence, I concluded that you had 
adopted this place as your resort, and 
a charming one. it is, during the hot 
sunshine. In order to find my way 
back to it, I marked the trees with 
broken branches, as one does during 
the chase, and sighing all the way, 
which gave me great pain” — 

u Want of practice, that!” inter- 
rupted Joan, smiling. u Mere want 
of practice.” 

u I have nothing to say against 
that, Madame ; sighing, however, all 
the way, which gave me great pain, 
I repeat it, I resumed the route to the 
town. I was very tired ; I had torn, 
moreover, my cinnamon-colored pour- 
point, in climbing the trees, and 
nevertheless, in spite of the rents in 
iny pourpoint, and of the oppression 
at my heart, I still felt something 
like joy ; for I had seen you.” 

u It seems to me that this is an ad- 
mirable story,” said Joan, u and that 
you have surmounted many and ter- 
rible obstacles. It is fine ; it is he- 
roical. But I, who have not so high 
a heart as you — I who am afraid to 
climb up trees — I, had I been in your 
place, should have preserved my pour- 
point, and yet more, should have ta- 
ken care of my nice white hands. See 
what a state your own are in ; all 
torn and scratched with branches.” 
u Yes. But I should not have 
seen her whom I came to see.” 

u On the contrary, I should have 
seen much better than you have seen, 
Diana de Meridor, and even Madame 
de Saint-Luc. ” 


SO 8 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


44 What would you have done ?” 
asked Bussy, eagerly. 

44 I should have ridden straight to 
the drawbridge of the chateau De 
Meridor, and should have walked in. 
Monsieur le Baron would have em- 
braced me ; Madame de Monsoreau 
would have placed me by her side at 
table ; Mousieur de Saint-Luc would 
have loaded me*“with caresses; Ma- 
dame de Saint-Luc would have made 
anagrams with me. All this is the 
simplest thing in the world. It is 
true, that the simplest thing in the 
world is precisely the thing which 
lovers never think of.” 

Bussy shook his head with a smile, 
and a glance directed to Diana. 

44 Oh, no !” said he. 44 No. That 
which you would have done, would 
have been excellent for all the world, 
but not excellent for me.” 

Diana blushed like a child, and the 
same smiL and glance was reflected 
from her lips and her eyes. 

44 Come,” said Joan, 44 what is 
this ? It seems then that I do not un- 
derstand good manners.” 

4i No,” said Bussy, shaking his 
head. 44 No, I could not go to the 
castle ! Madame is married — Mon- 
sieur le Baron is bound to the hus- 
band of his daughter, be he whom he 
may, to preserve a strict watch over 
her.” 

46 Good,” said Joan. 44 There is a 
tine lesson in civility, which I have 
been taught. I thank you, Monsieur 
de Bussy, for I deserved to receive it. 
This will teach me in future to min- 
gle myself up in the affairs of mad 
people.” 

44 Of mad people ?” repeated Diana. 

44 Of mad people or of lovers;” 
replied Madame de Saint-Luc, and 
in consequence, she kissed Diana on 
the forehead, made a low courtesy 
to Bussy, and ran away. 

Diana endeavored to hold her back 
with one hand, but Bussy caught 
Diana by the other, and held so tight- 
ly as she was by her lover, she had no 
choice but to let her friend gc 
free. 


Bussy and Diana were therefore 

left alone. 

Diana gazed at Madame de Saint- 
Luc, who went away picking flowers, 
and then sat down on the ground, 
blushing deeply. 

Bussy cast himself on the earth at 
her feet. 

44 I have done well, have I not, 
Madame, and you approve my con- 
duct ?” said he. 

44 I knew not how to feign,” replied 
Diana; 44 and moreover, you knew the 
bottom of my thoughts. Yes, I ap- 
prove your conduct ; but there J 
shall terminate my indulgence. When 
I called for you, when 1 desired your 
presence, as I did but now, I was 
mad — I was guilty.” 

u Mordieu ! What say you, Di- 
ana ?” 

44 Alas ! Monsieur le Comte, I say 
the truth. I have the right to ren- 
der Monsieur de Monsoreau unhappy, 
for driving me to this extremity ; but 
I have that right only, so long as I 
render no other person happy in his 
place. I may refuse him my pre- 
sence, my smile, my love ; but should 
I grant those favors to any other, I 
should be robbing him, who, in spite j 
of me, is my master.” 

Bussy listened to this piece of mor- 
ality with very exemplary patience, for 
it was, in truth, rendered tolerable by 
Diana’s gentleness and grace. 

44 It is my turn to speak now, is it 
not ?” said he. 

44 Speak,” said Diana. 

44 Frankly ?” asked he 

44 Speak.” 

44 Well ! of all that you have just 
said, Madame, you have not uttered 
one single word that comes from your 
heart.” 

44 What ?” 

■ u Listen to me, Madame, without 
impatience. You see that I listened 
patiently' to you, while you over- 
whelmed me with sophistry.” 

Diana made a little impatient ges- 
ture. 

44 The commonplaces of morality,” 
coniinued Bussy, 44 are but sophistry 




THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


309 


when they are destitute of applica- 
tion. In exchange for these sophis- 
tries, I, Madame, am about to give 
you truths. A man is your master, 
you say. Did you choose that man ? 
No. A fatality imposed him on you, 
and }mu submitted. Now, is it your 
intention to endure the consequences 
of a constraint so horrible during 
your whole life ? If it be so, it is for 
me to set you free.” 

Diana opened her mouth to speak. 
Bussy stopped her by a sign. 

u Oh ! I know the answer you are 
about to make me. You will reply 
to me,” said the young gentleman, 
u that if I challenge and kill him, 
you never will see me again. Be it 
so. I shall die of grief from not 
seeing you,- but you will live free ; 
but you will live happy ; but you will 
live to bestow happiness upon some 
gallant man, who, in his joy, will 
sometimes bless my name, and say, 
4 Thanks, Bussy, thanks ! for having 
delivered us from this hated Monso- 
reau and you yourself, Diana, who 
would not dare to thank me while 
alive, would thank me dead.” 

<£ You have not yet implored, Bus- 
sy,” said.she ; u and do you threaten 
already r” 

u Threaten you, oh! God hears 
me, and he knows what is my 
intention. I love you so ardently, 
Diana, that I shall not act as another 
than I would act. I know that you 
love me, Mon Dieu ! seek not to denv 
it. Should you do so, you fall back 
into that class of vulgar spirits, 
whose words are continually giving 
the lie to their actions. I know it, 
for you have avowed it. Then, a 
love such as mine, look you, beams 
forth its radiance like the sun, and 
vivifies all hearts which it touches. 
Thus I will not supplicate you, nor 
will 1 consume myself in despair ; no, 
1 will put myself at your knees which 
1 kiss, and I will say to you with my 
right hand upon my heart, upon that 
heart which has never lied, either for 
interest or for fear, I will say to you, 

. 

. 

v 

\ i * 

I > 


£ Diana, I love you, and it shall be 
for my whole life. Diana, I swear to 
you, in the face of Heaven, that I 
will die for you, and 1 die admiring 
you !’ If you say to me again, £ De- 
part, steal not the happiness of an- 
other,’ I will raise myself up without 
a sigh, without a sign, from this 
place where I now lie so happily, and 
1 will go my way, bowing, humbling, 
and saying to myself, £ This woman 
loves me not. This woman will 
never love me.’ Then I will depart, 
and you shall see me no more. But 
as my devotion for you is yet greater 
than my love, as my desire to see you 
happy will survive the certainty that 
I never shall be happy myself, as I 
shall not have robbed any one of his 
happiness, I shall have the right to 
rob of his life, by the sacrifice of my 
own. This, Madame, is what I will 
do, and that from the fear that other- 
wise you will be a slave for ever, and 
that this fact will serve you as a pre- 
text to render all those miserable 
who shall love you.” 

Bussy was really affected as he 
uttered these words. Diana read in 
his eye, so brilliant and sincere, all 
the vigorous truth of his resolution. 
She knew that which she said, that 
he would do. That his words would 
unquestionably be translated into 
actions, and as the snow of April 
melts before the sun-beams, so did 
her prudishness melt before the 
warmth of his passionate love. 

u Well,” she said, u . I thank you 
for this violence, which you do me, 
my friend. It is another act of deli- 
cacy on your part, thus to take from 
me all remorse for surrendering my- 
self to you. Now, will you love me 
unto death, as you say ? Now shall 1 
not be the sport of your fantasy, and 
will you not leave me one day to the 
odious regret of having refused to 
listen to Mons. de Monsoreau’s af- 
fection ? But no. I have no con- 
ditions to make. I am conquered ; 
I have surrendered ; I am yours, 
Bussy ; so far at least as love is con- 


310 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


cerned. Remain, therefore, my be- 
loved ; and now that my life is yours, 
watch over me.” 

As she spoke these words, Diana 
laid one of her white and shapely 
hands on Bussy’s shoulder, and gave 
him the other, which he held glued 
to his lips. Diana felt a thrill run 
through her whole frame at that kiss. 

Then the light stops of Joan were 
heard, accompanied by a little warn- 
ing cough. She was bringing back a 
little bunch of spring flowers, and the 
first butterfly which had perhaps ven- 
tured out as yet from its silver chry- 
salis. It was an atalanta with black 
and scarlet wings. 

Instinctively the entwined fingers 
relaxed their hold each on the other. 

Joan observed the motion. 

u Pardon me,” she said, u my dear 
friends, for disturbing you, but it is 
time that we return home, on pain of 
having them come to seek us here. 
Mons. le Comte, remount, if you 
please, your gallant horse which car- 
ries you four leagues in half an hour, 
and leave us to traverse as slowly as 
possible — for I presume we have many 
things about which to converse — the 
fifteen hundred yards which lie be- 
tween us and the house. By our 
lady ! This is what you have lost by 
your obstinacy, the dinner at the 
Chateau, which is excellent, particu- 
larly for men who take long rides on 
horseback, and climb over walls, and 
in addition to that a hundred merry 
jokes which we should have inter- 
changed, without taking into account 
certain glances which tickle the heart 
mortally. Come, Diana, let us go 
home ” 

And Joan took her friend by the 
arm, and made a slight effort to drag 
her away. 

Bussy looked at the two friends 
with a smile. Diana, who still was 
half turned toward him, gave him 
her hand. 

He drew near them. 

u To-morrow,” replied Diana. u Is 
it not agreed ?” 

u Only to-morrow?” 


u To-morrow and always.” 

Bussy could not refrain from utter- 
ing a little joyous cry. He bent his 
lips down to Diana’s hand, then cast- 
ing a last farewell glance to the two 
ladies, he retired or rather fled away. 

He felt that it required no slight 
effort of his will to consent to a sepa- 
ration from her to whom he had for 
a long time despaired of ever being 
re-united. 

Diana followed him with her eyes 
to the further end of the coppice, and 
holding her friend by the arm, listened 
to his footsteps in the thicket until 
they were lost in distance. 

u Ah ! now,” said Joan, when 
Bussy had entirely disappeared, 
u will you converse for a little wiiile 
with me, Diana?” 

u Oh ! yes,” said the young lady, 
starting as if the voice of her friend 
had awakened her from a dream, u I 
am listening to you.” 

u Well. Look you, to-morrow I 
shall go out hunting with Saint-Luc 
and your father.” 

u What ? and leave me alone at 
the Chateau ” 

u Listen, my dear friend,” said 
Joan. u I also have certain princi- 
ples of morality ; and there are cer- 
tain things which I cannot consent to 
do.” 

u Oh ! Joan,” cried Madame de 
Monsoreau, turning deadly pale. 
u Can you say such harsh things to 
me — to me, your friend ?” 

u There is no use in talking about 
friendship,” said Madame de Saint- 
Luc as quietly as before, u I cannot 
continue any longer in this manner.” 
u I thought that you 
Joan, and here you are p 
very heart !” said the your. . i, T • e 
tears in her eyes. u Yc i 
continue, you say ; you wi i \ 

tinue doing what ?” 

u Continue,” murmured 
the ear of her friend, u eont in 
ing you two, poor lovers tha; 
from loving one another 
hearts’ content, and in tine i 
tranquillity.” 


9 


THE LADY OF MON SORE ALL 


311 


Diana caught the merry young 
lady in her arms, and covered her 
gay face with kisses. 

As she held her embraced, the 
trumpets of the hunters resounded 
far and wide, with their noisy flou- 
rishes. 

u Come, we are called,” said Joan. 
u My poor Saint-Luo is growing im- 
patient. Be not more cruel to him 
than I am to your lover in the cinna- 
mon-colored pourpoint.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HOW BUSSY WAS OFFERED THREE 
HUNDRED PISTOLES FOR HIS HORSE, 
AND GAVE HIM FOR NOTHING. 

On the following morning, Bussy set 
out from Angers before the earliest 
burghers of the town had partaken of 
their morning meal. 

He did not gallop, he flew along 
his road. Diana had ascended to 
the terrace of the chateau, whence 
she could see the long white sinuous 
road, undulating through the broad 
green meadows. She saw a black 
point advancing like a meteor, and 
leaving the winding riband of the 
road longer and longer, at ever} 
stride, behind him. 

Then she ran down stairs, in order 
that she might not keep Bussy wait- 
ing, and to gain the credit for herself 
of having been kept waiting by him. 

The sun had scarce touched, as yet, 
the summit of the tall oaks ; the 

grass was covered with pearly dew- 
drops. Afar off, on the mountain’s 
side, Saint-Lue’s horn might be 

heard, which Joan was continually 
urging him to blow, in order that her 
friend might remember the service she 
vs; doing her, leaving her thu^ 

0 7 O 

iuoae. 

There was so keen, so sublime a 
degree of joy in Diana’s heart, she 
felt herself so much intoxicated with 
youth. ViAsth, love and beauty, that 
noux'UUaea as she ran, she fancied 


that her soul was lifting her body up 
on spiritual wings, as if to bring it 
nearer to her Creator. 

But the road from the house to the 
thicket was long, and the delicate 
feet of the young lady grew weary 
with treading the thick grass, and 
her breath failed her several times on 
her way ; she did not, therefore, reach 
the appointed place, until the very 
moment in which Bussy had cleared 
the summit of the wall, and was 
leaping down to meet her. 

He saw her run to meet him ; she 
uttered a cry of joy, he met her with 
extended arms ; she rushed toward 
him with both her hands pressed on 
her heart. Their morning greeting 
was a long, ardent, close embrace. 
What had they to say to each other ? 
They were in love. What had they, 
of which to think ? They saw each 
the other. What had they to desire ? 
They sat side by side with their hands 
clasped together. 

The day passed like an hour. Bus- 
sy, when Diana first aroused herself 
from that soft downy lethargy, which 
is the sleep of a soul wearied out by 
felicity, Bussy clasped the young 
woman to his heart, as she sat 
plunged in deep meditation, and said 
to her, 

“ Diana, it seems to me that to- 
day is the beginning of my life. It 
seems to me, to-day, for the first time, 
I clearly see the path which conducts 
my steps to eternity. Y ou are, doubt it 
not, the light which reveals to me this 
unbounded happiness. I knew naught 
of this world, nor the condition of 
those men who belong to this world. 
Moreover, as I heard you say yester- 
day to me, so now I can say to you, 
having begun to live through you 
only, with you only will I die.” 

u And I,” she replied, u I, who on 
a day would have cast myself gladly 
into the arms of death. I tremble to- 
day, lest I should not live long 
enough to exhaust all the treasures 
which your love promises me. But 
wherefore do you not come to the 
chateau, Louis ? My father will be 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


312 


happy to see you ; M. de Saint-Luc 
is your friend, and a discreet one. 
Think that for us, each hour longer 
that, we have in which to be together, 
is bliss invaluable.” 

u Alas ! Diana, if I go once to 
the chateau, 1 shall go there always. 
If 1 go there, the whole province will 
know it. The report will reach the 
ears of your husband He will has- 
ten hither. You have forbidden me 
to deliver you from him — ” 

u To what good end should you 
do so ?” said she, with that expres- 
sion which we never hear but in the 
voice of the woman whom we love. 
u For our safety,” he replied, 
for the security of our happiness, 
it is necessary that we should keep 
this event concealed from the whole 
world. Madame de Saint-Lue knows 
it now ; Monsieur de Saint-Luc will 
know it soon — ” 

u Oh, wherefore ? — ” 
a Would you conceal anything 
from me?” said Bussy, u from me, 
even now.” 

u I wrote a few words this morning 
to Saint-Luc, requesting him to meet 
me at Angers. He will come thither, 
and I shall receive his honor as a 
gentleman, that he will never allow 
one word of this adventure to escape 
his lips. This is the more impor- 
tant, my Diana, that I am undoubt- 
edly sought for on all sides. Serious 
events were rapidly in progress when 
I left Paris.” 

u You are right, and moreover my 
father is a man so scrupulous, as to 
be very capable of denouncing me, for 
all he so dearly loves me, to Monsieui 
de Monsoreau.” 

u Let. us conceal ourselves well, 
therefore, and if God shall deliver us 
to our foes at least we shall be able 
to say to ourselves that to do other- 
wise was impossible — ” 

u God is good, Louis, doubt not 
his mercies at this moment.” 

u I do not doubt the goodness of 
God, but I fear the suite of some de- 
mon, jealous of our happiness.” 
u Bid me farewell, Monseigneur, 


and do not ride back so fast. Youi 
horse frightens me.” 

u Fear nothing. He knows his 
road already. He is the gentlest 
and the surest-footed horse I . have 
ever ridden. When I am on my way 
back to town, steeped in delicious re- 
collections, he carries me without my 
touching his bridle.” 

The two lovers exchanged a thou- 
sand vows and declarations, similar 
to this vow and declaration, inter- 
rupted by a thousand kisses. At 
length the hunters’ horn, returning 
toward the chateau, resounded the 
notes on which Joan and her friend 
had agreed as a signal, and thereupon 
Bussy departed 

As he approached the town, mus- 
ing on the occurrences of that de- 
lightful day, proud of his liberty, he 
whom his honors, the duties of wealth, 
and the favors of a prince had ever 
held bound, as if with chains of gold, 
he observed that the hour was draw- 
ing nigh at which the city gates are 
closed. His horse which had browsed 
all day along on the fresh grass be- 
neath the forest trees, and proceeded 
moderately on his way, and night was 
already falling. 

Bussy was preparing to set spurs to 
his horse, in order to make up for 
the time he had lost, when he heard 
the gallop of several horses behind 
him. 

To a man who is under conceal- 
ment, and to one more especially who 
is in love, everything seems to be a 
threat. Happy lovers have that one 
point in common with robbers. Bus- 
sy began to ask himself, whether of 
the two would be the better way, to 
set spurs and so. keep the lead, or to 
turn to one side into the wood, and 
suffer the cavaliers to pass him. But, 
their pace was so rapid, that they 
were on him in a moment. 

They were two in number ; 
Bussy, considering that there is >a 
shame in avoiding two men, where one 
is equal to four in fight, drew to ont 
side and suffered them to come up ; 
when he perceived in a moment 


THE LADY OF MONSOREACJ. 


313 


one of the horsemen rode furiously 
with his spurs rowel deep in his 
horse’s sides, while his courser was 
urged farther yet by the constant 
lashes with which his comrade plied 
him. 

u Come, yonder is the town,” cried 
the latter, in the wildest Gascon ac- 
cent, u three hundred lashes more, 
and three hundred spur-strokes, and we 
are there. Courage and strength !’’ 
u The beast has no longer any 
wind, it shudders, it grows weak, it 
can proceed no further,” replied he 
who led the way, u and yet I would 
give a hundred horses to be within 
my city.” 

u It is some belated Angeoise,” 
said Bussy to himself. u Neverthe- 
less, as fear is said to make folk stu- 
pid, 1 thought I recollected that voice. 
But see, the horse of the fine fellow 
staggers.” 

At this moment the riders were 
abreast of Bussy on the road. 

u All ' have a care !” cried he, 
u Monsieur, take your feet from the 
stirrups, your horse is about to fall.” 
And in fact the horse did fall 
heavily on its flank, worked one lee 
convulsively, as if it would have 
ploughed the earth, and in an instant 
its painful breathing had ceased ; its 
eyes grew dim ; the thick slaver 
seemed to choke it. It was dead. 

u Monsieur,” cried the horseman 
who was thus dismounted, u three 
hundred pistoles for the horse which 
you ride.” 

u Ah ! Mordieu /” cried Bussy, mov- 
ing toward the speaker. 

a Do you hear me, Monsieur ? I 
am in great haste.” 

u Ah ! my prince, take him for 
nothing,” cried Bussy, trembling with 
indescribable emotion, as he recog- 
nized the Duke d ’Anjou. 

At .the same instant he heard the 
short quick sound made by the lock 
of a pistol, which the prince’s com- 
panion had cocked suddenly. 

u Hold ! hold !” cried the Duke 
of Anjou, to his ruthless defender. 
u Hold ! Monsieur d’Aubigne, it is 


Bussy, or may the devil fly away with 
me.” 

a Yes, yes ! my prince, it is I. 
But what the devil are you about, that 
you thus burst your horses at such an 
hour as this, and on this road ?” 
u Ah ! it is Monsieur de Bussy, is 
it ?” said D’Aubigne, u then, Mon- 
seigneur, you have no longer any need 
of me. Permit me to return to him 
who sent me, as the Holy Scripture 
has it.” 

“Not without receiving my very 
sincere thanks, and the promise of my 
solid friendship,” said the prince. 

u I accept both, Monseigneur, and 
I will recall your words to your mind, 
one of these days.” 

u Monsieur D’Aubigne * Monsei- 
gneur ! Ah ! I have fallen from the 
clouds then,” exclaimed Bussy. 

u Did you not know it ?” asked the 
prince, with an air of vexation and 
distrust which did not escape the ob- 
servation of the gentleman. u If you 
are here, is it not because you are 
awaiting me ?” 

a The devil !” thought Bussy, re- 
flecting on all the suspicious cir- 
cumstances which his secret residence 
in Anjou would suggest to the dark 
and unquiet spirit of Francis, u I must 
not compromise myself.” 

“I was doing better than awaiting 
‘you, Monsieur,” said he, “ and look 
you, since you wish to enter the city 
before the closing of the gates, to 
the saddle, Monseigneur.” 

And with the words, he offered 
his horse to the prince, who was 
busied in taking from the carcase cf 
his own some important papers which 
were concealed between the saddle 
and the housings. 

u Adieu, then, Monseigneur,” said 
D’Aubigne, wdio turned about as he 
spoke, u Monsieur de Bussy, your 
most humble servant.” 

And he set off as he spoke. 

Bussy leaped lightly to the croupe, 
behind his master, and guided his 
horse toward the city, asking himself 
in his secret soul, whether the prince 
clad in black, was not the gloomy 


iu 


DIANA OF MFRIDOR, OR, 


demon which hell was stirring up 
against him, jealous already of his 
bliss. 

They entered Angers about the 
first trumpet-blowing of the echevin- 
age. 

u What is to be done now, Mon- 
seigneur ?’’ 

u To the castle ! Let them hoist 
my banner, let them come and reco- 
gnize me, let the nobility of the pro- 
vince be convened.” 

u Nothing can be more easy,” said 
Bussy, resolved to play docility for 
the time being, in order to gain leis- 
ure, and, moreover, being himself too 
much surprised to be other than 
passive. 

u Ha ! Messieurs of the trumpet,” 
he exclaimed to the heralds who were 
returning after the first blowing. 

These looked towards him, but did 
not pay much attention to him, be- 
cause they saw only two men covered 
with sweat and dust, and with but a 
slender equipage. 

u Ho ! ho !’’ said Bussy, as he 
walked toward them, u is the master 
unknown in his house ? Let the 
echevin on duty be summoned hither.” 

This arrogant tone imposed on the 
heralds ; one of them drew nigh. 

u Jesu Lord !” he exclaimed terror- 
stricken, and gazing at the duke at- 
tentively. u Is it not our lord and 
master?” 

And in fact the duke was very easy 
to be recognized, owing to the defor- 
mity of his double-ended nose, as 
Chicot’s song had described him. 

u Monseigneur the duke !” he 
added, catching the other herald, who 
jumped with surprise, by the arm. 

u You know as much about it now 
as I do,” said Bussy. u Now puff 
your cheeks, make your trumpets 
sweat blood and water, and let all 
the city know that Monseigneur has 
arrived in his own city, and that 
within a quarter of an hour. We, 
Monseigneur, will go on slowly to the 
chateau. When we shall arrive there 
the supper will be on the spits for our 
reception.” 


In fact, at the first proclamation of 
the heralds, the people began to form 
themselves into groups ; at the second, 
the children and old women ran to 
gether in all the quarters of the town, 
calling aloud : 

u Monseigneur is in town. All 
hail to Monseigneur !’’ 

The echevins, the governor, the 
principal gentlemen of the place, all 
rushed in a crowd to the palace, fol- 
lowed by a compact crowd, which 
became every moment denser and 
denser. 

As Bussy had foreseen, the authori- 
ties of the town were already at the 
castle before the prince’s arrival, in 
order to receive him worthily. When 
he was passing the quay, it was 
scarcely possible for him to make his 
way through the press, but Bussy had 
found out one of the heralds, who, 
striking the excited populace with his 
trumpet to the right hand and the 
left, made a passage for the prince up 
to the steps of the town-hall. 

Bussy formed his rear-guard. 
u Messieurs, and my faithful 
friends,” cried the prince, u I have 
come to throw myself into my good 
town of Angers. In Paris the most 
terrible dangers menaced my life ; I 
was even deprived of my liberty. 

I succeeded, however, in escaping, 
thanks to the services of good 
friends.” 

Bussy bit his lips ; he readily di- 
vined the meaning of the ironioal 
glance which Francis cast upon him. 

u And now that I am within your, 
city, 1 feel that my life and liberty 
are alike secure.” 

The astonished magistrates faintly 
responded, u Long life to our Lord of 
Anjou !” 

The people, who expected the ac- 
customed alms, which were distributed 
at every visit of the prince, shouted 
more vigorously, a Hail, all hail !” 
u Let us go sup,” said the prince. 
u I have eaten nothing since morn- 
mg.” 

The duke was surrounded in a mo k 
ment by all the household, which, in 


THE LAD'i OF MONSOREAU. 


315 


bis quality of Duke d’ Anjou be main 
tained in Angers, and of which the 
principal servitors only were acquaint- 
ed with their lord. 

Then it was the turn of the gen- 
tlemen and ladies of the town to do 
homage to the prince. 

The reception lasted until mid- 
night ; the city was illuminated, 
musket shots rattled through the 
streets and public places ; the bells 
of the cathedral were set ringing, and 
the wind wafted even to Meridor the 
noisy peals of traditional joy pecu- 
liar to the good folk of Anjou. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE DIPLOMACY OF MONSEIGNEUR 
THE DUKE OF ANJOU. 

When the clatter of musketry in the 
streets had become somewhat less 
rapid and continuous, when the clang 
of hells had taken a slower time, 
when the antechambers were deserted 
by their crowds, when, at length, 
Bussy and the duke were left alone 
together, 

u Let us converse,” said the duke. 

In fact, aided by his natural cun- 
ning, Francis perceived that Bussy, 
since their meeting, had made more 
advances than was usual to him. He 
judged, therefore, that he was em- 
barrassed, and his knowledge of the 
court served him well in the conjec- 
ture ; and being embarrassed, he far- 
ther judged that he, by dint of skill, 
should be enabled to gain some ad- 
vantage over him. 

But Bussy had gained the time he 
required for preparation, and await- 
ed the prince firmly. 

u Let us converse, Monseigneur,” 
he replied. 

u The last time that we met,” said 
the prince, u you were very sick, my 
poor Bussy.” % 

“It ia true, Monseigneur,” replied 


the young gentleman, u I was very 
sick, and it was little short of a mi- 
racle that saved me.” 

u On that day,” pursued the prince, 
u there was a certain physician,” 
continued the duke, u furiously anx- 
ious concerning your health, as I 
think ; for he bit savagely, as I think, 
all those who approached your per- 
son.” 

u That again is true, my prince, 
for Le Haudouin is sincerely attached 
to me.” 

u He confined you strictly to your 
bed, did he not ?” 

u At which I was myself almost 
frantic, as your Highness might readi- 
ly have observed.” 

u But,” said the duke, u if you 
were, as you say, frantic at that, you 
might have sent all the faculty to the 
devil, and have gone out with me as 
I requested you to do.” 

u By’r Lady,” said Bussy, twisting 
his hat a hundred different ways in 
his hands. 

u But,” continued the duke, u as 
the matter in which I was engaged 
was of a most serious nature, you 
were afraid of committing yourself?” 
a What were you pleased to ob- 
serve?” asked Bussy, knocking the 
same hat with a single blow over his 
eyes. u Were you pleased to say, 
as I think you did, that I was afraid 
to compromise myself, my prince ?” 
u 1 said so,” replied the Duke 
d’Anjou. 

Bussy bounded from his chair to 
his feet. 

u And in saying so, you lied, Mon- 
seigneur,” he exclaimed — u lied even 
to yourself, do you hear ? for you 
believe not one syllable of that which 
you have said. There are twenty-seven 
scars on my body, which prove that 
I have compromised myself sometimes ; 
but that I never have been afraid ; and 
on my word, I know many persons 
who can neither say so much, nor 
show so many.” 

u You have always irrefragable ar- 
guments, Monsieur de Bussy,” said 
the duke, who had grown very pale, 


316 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


and seemed greatly agitated ; u when i 
you are accused, you cry out louder 
than the reproach itself, and then you 
fancy that you have the right of it.” 
u Oh ! 1 have not always the right, 
Monseigneur^ but I know very well on 
what occasions I have the wrong.” 
u And on what occasions have you 
the wrong ?” 

u When I serve those who are un- 
grateful.'’ 

u In truth, Monsieur, I think that 
you are forgetting yourself,” said the 
prince, rising with that dignity which, 
under certain circumstances, was pe- 
culiar to him. 

u Well. I forget myself, Mon- 
seigneur,” said Bussy. u Do you as 
much for once in your life. Forget 
yourself, or forget me.” 

Bussy took two steps toward the 
door, but the prince was too quick for 
him, and the gentleman found the duke 
at the door before him. 

u Will you deny, Monsieur,” said 
the duke, u that you went abroad a 
moment afterward, on the very day 
on which you refused to accompany 
me ?” 

u I,” said Bussy, u never deny any- 
thing, Monseigneur, unless it be 
something which persons would com- 
pel me to confess.” 

u Tell me, then, wherefore you per- 
sisted in remaining in your house.” 
a Because 1 was busy.” 
a At home ?” 
a At home, or elsewhere.” 
u I fancied that when a gentleman 
is in the service of a prince, his chief 
business is always the business of his 
prince. ” 

u And who is it -who generally does 
your business, if it be not I, Mon- 
seigneur ?” 

u I do not say no to that,” said 
Francis. u And in general, I have 
found you faithful and devoted. I 
will say more — 1 can excuse your ill- 
temper. ” 

u Ah ! you are very good.” 
u Yes ; for you had some cause to 
be dissatisfied with me.” 

“ You confess it, Monseigneur ?” 


u Yes. I had promised you that I 
would disgrace Monseigneur de Mon- 
soreau. It seems that you detest 
Monsieur de Monsoreau bitterly.” 
u I ! By no means. I think his 
face hideous ; and I should wish him 
removed from court, that I should not 
have his face before my eyes. You, 
on the contrary, Monseigneur, admire 
his face. Now, there is no disputing 
tastes.” 

u Well. Then as this is your sole 
excuse for sulking with me like a 
cross and fretful child, I will tell you 
that you are doubly to blame ; first, 
for refusing to go out with me, and 
then for going out without me to per- 
form useless acts of bravery.’’ 

u Have I performed useless acts 
bravery ? I, whom but now you were 
reproaching that I was afraid. Come, 
Monseigneur, be at least consistent, 
and explain to me. What useless 
braveries have I performed ?” 

u Undoubtedly, you had some ill 
will against Monseigneur d’Epernon 
and Monseigneur de Schomberg. That 
I can readily conceive. I bear them 
ill will also. Nay, I hate them most 
mortally ; but we must limit our- 
selves to wishing, and await the time 
for doing evil.” 

u Oh, Monseigneur, what is there 
concealed under all this ?” said 
Bussy. 

u Kill them, ’sdeath ! kill them 
both ! nay ! kill all four of them. I 
should be but the more grateful to 
you ; but do not exasperate them, es- 
pecially when you are going to absent 
yourself, since their exasperation falls 
upon me.” 

u Ah ! let us see. What have I 
done to the good Gascon ?” 

“ You mean D’Epernon, do you 
not ?” 

“ I do.” 

u What ? did you not cause him to 
be stoned ?” 

u I cause him to be sioned ?” — 
u To such a degree that his pour- 
point was in rags, his cloak torn to 
tatter3, and that he returned to the 
Louvre in his breeches only.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


“ Good,” said Bussy, “ for one of 
tlie two. Let us pass to the German. 
What wrong have I done to Monsieur 
de Schomberg ?” 

“ Will you deny that you caused 
him to be dyed of an indigo blue ? 
When I saw him, three hours after 
his misadventure, he was still azure. 
And that I suppose you Gall a fine 
joke. Come, what next ?” 

And the prince began to laugh, des- 
pite himself, at'the recollection, while 
Bussy, on his side, remembering 
Schomberg’s face while he was in the 
dyer’s vat, began to laugh yet more 
violently than the prince. 

“ And it is I,” he said at length, 
“ is it, who pass for having played 
these tricks to them ?” 

“ Pcirdieu! perhaps you mean that 
it was I ?” 

“ And have you the courage, Mon- 
seigneur, to make these reproaches to 
a man capable of conceiving and exe- 
cuting such ideas ? Hold ! I told you 
awhile since that you were ungrateful. ” 
“ Agreed. And now, come, if you 
really went out for this purpose, I ior- 
give you.” 

“ Certainly you do ?” 

“ Certainly, on my honor. But 
you have not heard the end of my 

grievances yet.” 

“ Proceed.” 

“ Let us speak of myself a little.” 
“Be it so.” . 

“What have you done to extricate 
me from my embarrassments ?” 

“ You see what I have done,” said 
Bussy. 

“ No. I do not see.” 

“Why. I set out for Anjou.” 

“ That is to say you escaped.” 

“ Yes, for by escaping I ensured 
your escape.” 

“ But, instead of escaping to such a 
distance, could you not have remained 
in the vicinity of Paris ? It seems 
to me that you might have served me 
better at Montmartre than at Anjou.” 
“Ah! here it is that we differ in 
opinion, Monseigneur. I preferred 
coming to Angers.” 

“ That is a very moderate reason 


3n 

' only, you will agree, since it is only 
| your caprice.” 

“ No ; for the object of that ca- 
price was to enlist partisans for you.” 
“ Ah ! that is a different thin?. 

o 

Well, and what have you done ?” 

“ It will be time to reply to you 
to-morrow, Monseigneur, for this is 
precisely the hour at which I must 
quit you.” 

“ And wherefore quit me ?” 

“ To have some conversation with 
a most important personage.” 

“Ah! if it be so, go ; that is a 
widely different case. Go, Bussy, 
but be prudent.” 

“ Prudent ! To what end ? Are 
we not the stronger here ?” 

“ That matters not. Risk nothing. 
Have you made many overtures ?” 

“ I have been here two days. How 
should I have done so ?” 

“ But you are in hiding, are you 
not ?” 

“ I believe you, I am in hiding, 
’Sdeath ! am I commonly in the habit 
of wearing cinnamon-colored pour- 
points ? Do you not see the costun. 

I am wearing ? and it is for you, after 
all, that I have tucked myself in this 
ridiculous sheath.” 

“ And where do you lodge r” 

“ Ah ! now you will appreciate my 
discretion. I lodge — I lodge in a ru- 
ined house near the ramparts, with an 
outlet to the river. But you, my 
prince, in your turn tell me how you 
got out of the Louvre ? How is it 
that I found you on the road to An- 
gers, with a foundered horse between 
your legs, and Monsieur d’Aubigne 
by your side ?” 

“ Because I have friends,” said the 
prince. 

“ You, friends ?” said Bussy. 
“ Come, come !” 

“Yes, friends, whom you know not.” 
“ I am glad to hear that. Well, 
who are these friends ?” 

“ The King of Navarre, and Mon- 
sieur d’Aubigne, whoir you saw.” 

“ The King of Navarre ! Ha ! that 
is true ! And you have conspired to- 
gether, then ?” 


318 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ I never conspire, Monsieur de 
Bussy.” 

u Never ! Ask La Mole and Co- 
con nas about that.” 

u La Mole,” said the prince, with 
a gloomy brow, u committed a differ- 
ent crime from that for which it is 
believed that he died.” 

u Well, never mind La Mole, and 
let us return to yourself, the rather, 
Monseigneur, that we shall have 
some trouble in coming to an under- 
standing on that head. By what way, 
in the devil’s name, did you get out 
of that Louvre ?” 
u By the window.” 

. u Ah ! indeed ! by what window ?” 
u By the window of my bed-cham- 
ber.” ' 

u You were acquainted, then, with 
the rope-ladder ?” 

u YVhat rope-ladder ?” 
u The rope-ladder in the closet.” 
u Ah ! it seems that you knew it, 
at least,” said the prince, turning pale. 

u By our lady, yes !” said Bussy, 
u your Highness knows that 1 have 
sometimes had the happiness to be in 
that chamber.” 

u In the time of my sister Margot, 
bey ? And you used to get in by the 
window r” 

u By’r lady you got out by it, it 
seems. The oilly thing which sur- 
prises me is how you found the rope- 
ladder.” 

a I did not find it.” 

(C Who did find it, then ?” 
u Nobody. I was told of it.” 
u Who told you of it ?” 
u The King of Navarre.” 
u Ha! ha! The King of Navarre 
knew of the rope-ladder ; I should 
hardly have supposed that. After all, 
it is very well that you are here, Mon- 
seigneur, by what means soever. We 
will set Anjou on fire bravely ; and the 
same train will kindle the Anjoumois 
and Bearn to a brio-ht blaze. This 

O 

will make altogether a pretty little 
conflagration.” 

u But you were speaking but now 
of an appointment, were you not ?” 
said the duke. 


u Ah, ’sdeath ! that is tru A ; but 
the interest of the conversation made 
me forget it. Adieu, Monseigneur.” 
u Do you take your horse ?” 

“ By’r lady, if he be useful to 
Monseigneur, Monseigneur may keep 
him. I have a second.” 

u I accept him, then. Hereafter 
we will look over our accounts.” 
u Yes, Monseigneur, and may it 
please God that it be not I who 
shall be found in debt to you !” 

“ Wherefore do you say that ?” 
u Because I do not like the person 
whom you generally employ to liqui- 
date such matters.” 
u Bussy ?” 

u It is true, Monseigneur ; it was 
agreed that we should not speak of 
these matters.” 

The prince, who felt that he had 
occasion for Bussy’s service, offered 
him his hand. Bussy took it, but 
shook his head as he did so. 

And the two separated 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE DIPLOMACY OF MONSIEUR DE 
SAINT-LUC. 

Bussy returned to his own house at 
night, through the thick darkness, 
but instead of finding Saint-Luc, as 
he expected, he found only a letter 
announcing the arrival of his friend 
on the following day. 

In fact, toward six o’clock in the 
morning, Saint-Luc, followed by a 
yeoman pricker, set off from Meridor, 
and took his way toward Angers. 
He had arrived at the foot of 
the ramparts, at the moment when 
the posts were withdrawn from 
the gates, and without remarking the 
singular bustle of the people at an 
hour so early, he reached Bussy’s 
house. 

The two friends embraced cordially 

“ Deign, my dear Saint-Luc,” said 
Bussy, u to accept the hospitality of 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU 


319 


my poor hut. I am encamped in 
Angers.” 

“ Yes,” said Saint-Luc, “ in the 
guise of a conqueror on the field of 
battle.” 

“ What do you mean, my dear 
friend ?” 

u That my wife has no secrets 
from me, and that I have none from 
her, my dear Bussy, and that she has 
told me everything. There is a per- 
fect community between us in all 
respects ; accept of my compliments ; 
you may command me in everything, 
and since you have sent for me, per- 
mit me to give you some advice.” 
“Give it.” 

“ Rid yourself as speedily as pos- 
sible of this abominable Monsoreau. 
No one at court is yet aware of your 
intimacy with his wife ; and when 
Y°U shall marry his widow, hereafter, 
it is as well that they should not say 
you made her a widow, for the pur- 
pose of marrying her.” 

“ There is but one obstacle to 
that fine project, which presented 
itself to my mind immediately, as it 
seems to have done to yours also.” 

“ You are quick-sighted, and what 
is this obstacle ?” 

“ That I have sworn to Diana that 
I will respect the life of her husband, 
so long as he do not attack me, be 
it understood.” 

“ You did very wronsdv.” 

“ I did ?” 

“You could not have done more 
wrongly.” 

“ Wherefore so ?” 

“ Because people do not take such 
oaths. What the devil, if you do not 
make haste, if you do not get the first 
stroke at him, this Monsoreau, who is 
made up of malice and stratagems, will 
discover you, and if he discover you, 
not being chivalrous, he will kill you.” 
“ That will turn out as God shall 
have determined,” said Bussy, with 
a smile. “ But, besides that, I should 
break the oath I have made to Diana 
that I would not kill her husband — ” 
“ Her husband ! you know well 
that he is not her husband.” 


“ I do know it. But he neverthe- 
less goes by that title. Besides, 1 
say that I should break my oath, the 
world would stone me, my dear fel- 
low, and he who is to-day a mon- 
ster in all eyes, would be an angel 
in his coffin.” 

“Again, I do not advise you to 
kill him with your own hand.” 

“ Assassins ! ah ! Saint-Luc, I am 
sorry you should so advise me.” 

“ Hola ! who spoke of assassins ?” 
“ If not, of what did you speak ?” 
“ Of nothing. An idea entered 
my mind suddenly, which is not as 
yet sufficiently ripe that I should 
communicate it to you. I love this 
Monsoreau no better than you do, 
although I have not the same reasons 
for detesting him. Therefore, let us 
now speak of the wife not of the 
husband.” 

Bussy smiled. 

“ You are a brave companion, 
Saint-Luc,” he said, “ and you may 
reckon on my friendship. Now, as 
you well know, my friendship consists 
of three things — of my purse,- of my 
sword, of my life.” 

“ Thanks !” said Saint-Luc. “ 1 
accept them ; but only on condition 
o f return i ng them . ’ ’ 

“ Now, what would you say to me 
conce ning Diana ? Let me hear.” 

“ I desire to ask you if you do not 
intend to come to Meridor a little ?” 
“ My friend, I thank you for your 
urgency, but you know my scruples.” 
“ I know everything. At Meridor 
you are exposed to meet the Monso- 
reau, although he be eighty leagues 
distant from us ; you might be com- 
pelled to press his hand, and it is a 
hateful thing to be compelled to press 
the hand of a man whom we would 
choke if we could ; and, to conclude, 
you might see him embrace Diana,, 
and it is a hard thing to see the wo- 
man whom we love embraced 
another.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed Bussy, passion- 
ately ; “ now will you comprehend 
the causes why I will not visit Meri- 
dor ! Now, my dear friend — ” 


320 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 

-■» 


44 You wisli me to take my leave ?” 
said Saint-Luc, misunderstanding 
Buss} t ’s meaning. 

44 By no means. Far from it,” re- 
plied lie. 44 1 beg you to remain, for 
it is my turn now to interrogate you.” 
44 Proceed.” 

44 Did you not hear last night the 
din of bells and musketry ?” 

44 We did indeed ; and asked one 
another yonder what it could mean.” 
44 And this morning, did you see 
nothing as you passed through the 
streets ?” 

44 Something like a great bustle, do 
you mean ?” 

“ Yes.” 

44 I did ; and was about to ask you 
what it arose from.” 

44 It arose from this, that the Duke 
of Anjou came yesterday to Angers, 
my dear friend.” 

Saint-Luc started in his chair as 
if the presence of the devil had been 
announced to him. 

44 The duke at Angers ! I thought 

o o 

he was in prison in the Louvre.” 

44 It is precisely because he was in 
prison at the Louvre that he is now at 
Angers. He succeeded in escaping by 
a window, and has fled hither for 
safety.” 

44 What next ?” asked Saint-Luc. 
44 The next, dear friend, is this,” 
said Bussy, 44 that you have an excel- 
lent opportunity here for avenging all 
your petty persecutions on his Majes- 
ty. The prince has already a party. 
He will soon have troops, and among 
us we will soon knock up something 
like a pretty little civil war.” 

44 Oh ! oh !” replied Saint-Luc. 

44 And I reckoned upon you to draw 
the sword with us.” 

44 Against the King ?” asked Saint- 
Luc, with an expression of sudden 
coldness. 

44 I do not say precisely against the 
King, but against all who draw the 
sword against us.” 

44 My dear Bussy,” said Saint-Luc. 
u I came into Angers to take the 
country air, not to take arms against 
his Majesty.” 


44 But allow me to present to you 
Monseigneur.” 

O * 

44 Useless, my dear Bussy. I do 
not like Angers, and intend to leave 
it ere long. It is a gloomy, disagree- 
able town. The stones of it are as 
soft as cheese, and the cheese as hard 
as stones.” 

44 My dear Saint-Luc, you would* 
do me a great service if you can con- 
sent to that which I request of you. 
The duke asked me why 1 have come 
hither, and, being unable to tell him, 
seeing that he himself loved Diana 
and failed with her, 1 caused him to 
believe that I came hither to draw 
into the conspiracy all the gentlemen 
of the province. Nay, I even added 
that I had an appointment for this 
morning with one of them.” 

44 Well, you will tell him that you 
have seen this gentleman, and that he 
requires six months to consider of it.” 

44 I must say, my dear Saint-Luc, 
that your logic is not less defensive 
than my own.” 

44 Listen. I hold in this world 
only to my wife, you only to your 
mistress. Let us agree upon one 
thing. On all occasions, 1 will defend 
Diana ; on all occasions, you shall 
defend Madame de Saint-Luc. An 
amorous covenant if you will, but no 
political covenant. This is the only 
way in wdiieh we can come to an un- 
derstanding.” 

O 

44 1 see that I must yield to you, 
Saint-Luc,” said Bussy, 44 for at 
this moment you have the advantage 
of me. I stand in need of your aid ; 
while you, on the contrary, can dis- 
pense readily with mine.” 

44 Quite on the eontrarv, for it is I 

»/ / 

who require your protection.” 

44 How so ?” 

44 Suppose the Angevins, for by that 
name I suppose the rebels will call 
themselves, should go and beseige 
Meridor, and sack it !” 

44 Ah ! the devil ! vou are right 
there,” said Bussy, 41 you would not 
wish the inhabitants to undergo the 
consequences of an assault.” 

The two friends began to laugh, 

O D ■ 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


321 


and, as the cannon of the castle were 
firing, and Bussy’s valet had informed 
him that the prince had asked for 
him three times, they again swore 
eternal friendship, politics only ex- 
cepted, embraced each other, and 
separated mutually enchanted. 

Bussy hurried to the ducal castle, 
whither the nobility was flowing in 
already from every part of the pro- 
vince ; the arrival of the Duke of 
Anjou had rung like an echo carried 
on the cannon’s sound, over all the 
country, and at three or four leagues’ 
distance around Angers, the towns 
and villages had arisen at this news. 

The gentleman made haste to ar- 
range an official reception, a feast, 
and harangues ; for he thought that 
so long as the duke should be eating 
and haranguing, he might find time to 
see Diana, if it were but for a mo- 
ment. Then, when he had cut out 
several hours’ occupation for the duke, 
he leaped upon his second horse, which 
stood ready at his house, and set off 
at full gallop for Meridor. 

The duke, left to himself, pronoun- 
ced a very turbulent discourse, 
which produced a great effect, as he 
spoke of the League, touching with 
great discretion on the points relating 
to his alliance with the Messieurs de 
Guise, and giving himself out as a 
prince persecuted by the League, in 
consequence of the confidence reposed 
in him by the people of Paris. 

During the replies, and the kissing 
of hands, the Duke of Anjou review- 
ed all the gentlemen, carefully noting 
down those who were still missing. 

When Bussy returned, it was four 
o’clock in the afternoon ; he leaped 
down from his horse, and entered the 
presence of the duke all covered with 
dust and perspiration. 

u Ah ! ah ! my brave Bussy,” said 
the duke, “ here you are at work, by 
all appearances.” 

“ You see, Monseigneur.” 

“ You are heated ?” 

“ I have ridden very hard.” 

“ Take care lest you make yourself 
ill ; you are scarcely as vet recovered.” 


“ There is no danger.” 

“ And whence do you come ?” 

“ From the adjacent country. Is 
your Highness well pleased ? Was 
your court crowded ?” 

“ Yes. I am pretty well pleased. 
But at this moment, Bussy, one man 
is wanting to us.” 


“ Who is that ?” 

“ Your protege.” 

“ My protege ?” 

“ Yes. The Baron de Meridor. 
“Ah !” said Bussy, changing color. 
“ And yet it will not do to neglect 
him, because he neglects me. He 
has great influence in the province.” 
“You think so !” 

“ I am sure of it. It is he who 
corresponded with the League at 
Anvers. He was chosen by Monsieur 
de Guise, and in general the Mes- 
sieurs de Guise choose their men 
well. He must come hither, Bus- 


“ But if, for all this, he should not 
come, Monseigneur?” 

“ If he will not come to me, I will 
go to him.” 

“ What, to Meridor ?” 

“ Wherefore not ?” 

Bussy could not command the jea 
lous and blighting flash which leaped 
from his eyes. 

“ In truth,” he said, “ wherefore 
not ? You are a prince, and to prin- 
ces everything is permitted.” 

“ Ah ! So you think, then, that 
they still bear me ill-will?” 

u I know not. What can I tell 
about the matter ?” 

“ You have not seen him.” 

“No.” 

“ Dealing, as you have been, with 
the chief men of the province, 1 
should have thought that you must 
have come in contact with him.” 

“ I should not have failed to do so 
if he had not himself before had deal- 
ings with me.” 

“ What of that?” 

“ Why,” said Bussy, “ I was not 
so fortunate in the promises I made 
to him, that I should be in great 
haste to present myself before him.” 


922 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Why ? Did lie not gain what he 
desired ?” 

u What do you mean by that ?” 

u He wished that the count should 
marry his daughter, and the count has 
married her.” 

u Well, my lord. Let us speak of 
this no longer,” said Bussy, and he 
turned his back on the prince. 

At this moment fresh gentlemen 
made their entree ; the duke went up 
to them, and Bussy was left alone. 

The prince’s words had given him 
much ground for thought. 

What could be in truth the ideas 
of the Baron of Meridor with regard 
to the prince ? 

Were they such as the prince had 
declared them to be ? Did he only 
see in the old baron a means the more 
of strengthening his cause by a popu- 
lar and powerful man ? 

Or rather, were not his political 
projects a means the more for bring- 
ing him into connection with Diana ? 

Bussy examined the prince’s posi- 
tion with a jealous eye. He saw that 
he was embroiled with his brother, 
banished from the Louvre, the leader 
of a provincial insurrection. He cast 
the political interests and the amor- 
ous fancies of the prince into the op- 
posite scales. 

The latter interests were light, as 
compared to the rest, and Bussy felt 
disposed to pardon the prince all his 
other wrongs, provided only that he 
w^ould not do him this one. 

He passed the whole night banquet- 
ing with the gentlemen of Angers 
and his Royal Highness, and paying 
his devoirs to the fair ladies of An- 
jou ; then as, after supper, the vio- 
lins were introduced, he began to teach 
them some of the newest dances. 

It will be comprehended, without 
more words, that he was the admi- 
ration of the women, and the despair 
of their husbands ; and as several of 
the latter looked at Bussy, as Bussy 
did not like to be looked at, he 
twisted hk moustache eight or ten 
times, and asked three or four of 
those gentlemen if they would do him 


the honor of taking a moonlight walk 
with him on the bowling green. 

But, his reputation having come 
before him to Angers, Bussy got off 
with the proposition only. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

WHAT REMY LE HAUDOUIN DID AT 
MERIDOR. 

At the door of the Ducal Palace, 
Bussy found a frank, loyal, merry 
face, which he believed to be eighty 
leagues distant. 

u Ah !” said he, with a sentiment 
of true joy, “ is it thou, Remy ?” 
u Ah ! Mordieu ! yes, Monsei- 
gneur.” 

u I was going to write to thee to 
come and rejoin me.” 
u Were you in truth ?” 
u Upon my word of honor.” 
u In that case, then the matter has 
fallen out miraculously ; I feared 
that you would scold me.” 
u And for what reason ?” 
u For coming hither without per- 
mission. But on my honor, when I 
learned that the Duke of Anjou had 
escaped from the Louvre, and had 
set out for his province, I remembered 
that you were in the neighborhood of 
Angers, I thought there would be a 
civil war, lots of cut and thrust given 
and taken, a good number of holes 
made in my neighbor’s skin, and see- 
ing that I love my neighbor as my- 
seff, I came hither. ’ 

u Thou hast done well, Remy, on my 
honor. I was beginning to miss thee.” 
u How is Gertrude, Monseigneur ?” 
The gentleman smiled. 
u I promise thee that the first time 
I see Diana, I will inquire into that,” 
said he. 

u And I, in return, rest assured, will 
ask news from her, the first time I 
shall see her, of Madame de Mon- 
soreau.” 




THE LADY OF MONSOREATT 


323 


il Thou art a charming companion, 
and how didst thou find me out ?” 
u Parbleu, ! That was a fine diffi- 
culty. I asked where the ducal hotel 
was, and I awaited you at the door 
after leading my horse to the prince’s 
stables, wherein, God forgive me, I 
found yours.” 

“ Yes. The Prince had killed his 
own, I lent him Poland, and as he 
had no other he kept him.” 

“ I recognize you well in that. It 
is you who are the prince, and he 
who should be the servant.” 

u Do not be in a hurry to set me 
so high, Remy ; thou shalt soon see 
how Monsei^neur is lodged.” 

And as he said this he introduced 
Remy le Haudouin into his little 
house on the rampart. 

u Upon my faith !” said Bussy, 
“ you see the palace. Lodge your- 
self how you will, and where you will.” 
“ That will not be difficult ; and 
I do not require a very large space, 
as you know. Beside which I will 
sleep standing upright, should it be 
necessary. I am sufficiently tired to 
do so, I assure you.” 

The two friends, for Bussy treated 
Le Haudouin rather as a friend than as 
a servant, separated, and Bussy slept, 
his heart doubly at his ease since he 
had found both Diana and Remy, 
without once awakening. 

It is true, that in order to be en- 
abled to sleep easily himself, the 
prince had requested that no more 
cannon should be fired, and that the 
musketry should cease. As to the 
bells they had themselves fallen 
asleep, thanks to the blistered fingers 
of the bell-ringers. 

Bussy arose early, and hurried to 
the castle, leaving directions that 

I Remy should be desired to come and 
find him there. He was anxious to 

I observe the first yawnings of his High- 
ness on his awakening, in order to 
surprise, if possible, his real thoughts 
in the grimace of a suddenly awaken- 
ed sleeper, which is for the most part 
yery significant. 

The duke awoke, but it might 


have been said of him, that, like his 
brother Henry, he had put on a mask 
to sleep in. Bussy had, therefore, his 
early rising gratis. 

He had prepared already a cata- 
logue of things to be done, each more 
important than the other. 

First of all, a promenade without 
the walls, in order to reconnoitre the 
fortifications of the place. 

Secondly, a review of the inhabit- 
ants and their arms. 

Thirdly, a visit to the arsenals, and 
an order for munitions of all kinds. 

Fourth, a minute inquiry into the 
taxes of the province, with the intent 
of procuring from the good and faith- 
ful vassals of the province a small 
subsidiary impost, destined for the 
internal decoration of his coffers. 
Lastly, correspondence. 

But Bussy knew beforehand that he 
ought not to reckon very firmly on the 
last article. The Duke of Anjou 
wrote little ; from this time forth he 
put the proverb into practice, scripta 
manent . 

Thus fortified against the evil 
thoughts which might assail the 
prince, Bussy saw him open his eyes, 
but, as we have said, without being 
able to read a word in those eyes. 

u Ah, ah !” said the duke. u Thou 
already !” 

“ Upon my word, yes, Monsei- 
gneur. I have been unable to sleep, 
so constantly have the interests of 
your Highness been flitting through 
my head. What shall we do this 
morning ? Shall we hunt ?” 

u Good !” said Bussy to himself in 
a whisper. u This at least is an oc- 
cupation of which I had not thought.” 
“ What !” said the duke, u do you 
pretend that you have been thinking 
of my interests all night long, and 
that the result of your consideration 
is to come and offer me a hunting- 
party ! Come, come.” 

“ That is true,” said Bussy. 
u However, we have no pack.” 

“ Nor master of the staghounds,” 
said the prince. 

“ Ah ! on my word, I shall not 


% 


f24 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


♦ 


think hunting the more a^eeable, if | 
I must needs hunt with him.” 

u Ah ! I do not agree with you. 

I miss him greatly.” 

The duke said this with a singular 
expression. Bussy remarked it. 

u This worthy man,” said he, 
u your friend as he is, did not, it ap- 
pears, rescue you from prison on that 
account.” 

The duke smiled. 

u Good,” thought Bussy. u I 
know that smile. It is the evil one. 
Let Monsoreau look to himself.” 
u You hate him/then ?” asked the 
prince. 

u Whom ? Monsoreau ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Wherefore should I hate him ?” 
u Because he is my friend.” 
u On the contrary, I pity him for 
that sincerely.” 

u What does that mean ?” 
u It means that the higher you 
shall make him climb, the deeper 
will be his downfall, when that fall 
shall come.” 

u Come, come, I see that you are 
in a good-humor.” 

“I?” 

u Yes. It is vhen you are in a 
good humor that you say such things 
as that to me. Never mind,” con- 
tinued the duke. u I hold still to 
what I have said, the Monsoreau 
would have been useful to us in this 
country.” 

L: Wherefore so ?” 

“ Because he has property in the 
neighborhood.” 
u He has ?” 
u He or his wife ?” 

Bussy bit his lips The duke had 
brought the conversation to the verv 
point, from which he had found so 
much difficulty in leading him away 
on the previous night. 

u Ah ! do you think so ?” said he. 
u Certainly I do. Meridor is three 
leagues distant from Angers. Do 
you not know that, you who brought 
the old baron upon me?” 

Bussy understood now that it was his 
cue not to be put out of countenance. 


u By’r Lady !’’ said he, u I brought 
him to you because he hung upon my 
mantle, and because, unless I resolved 
to leave half of it between his fingers, 
as Saint-Martin did, I had no choice 
but to lead him to you. For the 
rest, my protection did not stand 
him much in stead.” 

u Listen,” cried the duke. a I 
have an idea.” 

u The devil !” said Bussy, who al- 
ways distrusted the ideas of the prince 
u Yes. Monsoreau won the first 
point against you. Suppose I give 
you the second.” 

u What do you mean, my prince?” 

. u It is very simple. You know 
me, Bussy.” 

u I have that misfortune, my 
prince.” 

u Do you think that I am a man 
to receive an insult, and to let it go 
unpunished.” 

u That depends.’’ 

The duke again smiled a smile 
even more sinister than the first, bit- 
ing his 
and do 

u Come, explain yourself, Mon- 
seigneur,’’ said Bussy. 

u Well ! the master of the stag- 
hounds has robbed me of a young 
girl, in order to make her his wife 
I, in my turn, will rob him of his wife 
to make her my mistress.” 

Bussy made an effort to smile, but, 
try it as hard as he could, he only 
succeeded in a grimace. 

u To steal the wife of Monsieur de 
Monsoreau ?” he stammered out. 

“ It seems to me that nothing can 
be easier. You told me that she de- 
tests her husband. I may reckon 
then, without too much vanity, on her 
preferring me to the Monsoreau ; 
especially if I should promise her 
what I will promise her.” 

u And what will you promise her, 
Monseigneur ?” 

o 

u To set her free from her hus - 
band.” 

u Ah !” Bussy was on the point of 
crying out, u Wherefore then did you 
not do so in the first instance ?” 


lips, and nodding his head up 


•* 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU 


325 


But he had the courage to contain 
himself. 

u And will you perform that noble 
action ?” he said. 

u You shall see. In the mean 
time, I will go at least and pay a 
visit at Meridor.” 

u Will you dare to do so ?” 
u Wherefore not ?” 
u Will you present yourself before 
the old baron, whom you abandoned, 
after having given me your promise.” 
u I have an excellent excuse to give 
him.” 

u Where the devil will you go to 
find it ?” 

u Why certainly I will say to him, 
I did not break off that marriage be- 
cause the Monsoreau, who knew that 
you and I were among the principal 
agents of the League, and that I was 
the chief of them all, threatened to 
betray us both to the King. ’’ 

a Ah, ha ! Is your Highness in- 
venting this ?” 

u Not altogether, I must confess it 
to you,” said the duke. 

u Then I understand,” said Bussy. 
u You understand,” said the duke, 
who deceived himself as to the mean- 
ing of his gentleman’s words. 

“ Yes.” 

u I bade him to believe that by 
giving his daughter in marriage, I 
saved his life, which was endangered.” 
u That is superb,” said Bussy. 
u Is it not so ? — But, Ha ! now 
that I think of it, look out of that 
window, Bussy.” 
u For what end ?” 
u Never mind. Look out !” 
u Here I am.” ^ 

I u What sort of weather is it ?” 
u I must confess to your Highness 
that it is very fine.” 

u W ell — order our horses, and let us 
go and seethe good man of Meridor.” 
u Forthwith, Monseigneur.” 

And Bussy, who for a quarter of an 
hour had been playing the externally 
comic part of Mascarille in trouble, 
feigning that he was about to go forth, 
went to the door, and returned again. 
“ Pardon me, Monseigneur. But 


how many horses would you desire 
that I should order ?” 

u Four or five — or as many as you 
please.’’ 

u Then if you leave it to my 
charge, Monseigneur, I will order a 
hundred,” said Bussy. 

u What, a hundred ?” said the 
prince, u for what purpose ?” 

u That I may have almost twenty- 
five of whom I could be sure, in case 
of an attack.” 

The duke trembled 
u Of an attack ?” said he. 
u Yes. I have heard say,” conti- 
nued Bussy, u that there were lots of 
woods in the country, and that it 
would be nothing at all uncommon if 
we were to fall into an ambuscade.” 
u Ah, ah !” said the duke, u do 
you think so ?” 

u Monseigneur well knows that 
true courage by no means forbids pru- 
dence.” 

The duke began to ponder. 
u I will go and order a hundred 
and fifty,” said Bussy. 

And again he pretended to be leav- 
ing the room. 

u One moment,’’ said the prince. 

“ What is it, Monseigneur ?” 
u Do you think that I shall be in 
safety in Angers, Bussy ?” 

u By our Lady ! the town is not 
strong, yet well defended — ” 

u Yes ! well defended, but it may 
prove to be ill defended. Brave as 
you are, you can but be in one placo 
at once.” 

u It is probable.” 
u What is to be done if I be not 
in safety in this town — and I am not 
in safety since Bussy doubts.” 

u I did not say that I doubted, 
Monseigneur.” 

u Well, well. If I be not in safe- 
ty here, I must put myself in safety 
forthwith.” 

u Your words are true as gold. 
Monseigneur.” 

“ W ell, I will visit the castle, and 
fortify myself in it.” 

u You are right, Monseigneur 
Good fortifications, look l you — ” 


! 


326 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


And Bussy stopped short, stammer- 
ing. He was not used even to feign 
fear, and prudent words came not 
readily to him. 

u Then another idea strikes me,” 
said the prince. 

u The morning seems fruitful in 
such, my prince.” 

u I will cause the Meridors to come 
hither.” 

u Monseigneur, how just and vigo- 
rous are your thoughts to-day. But 
rise, and let us visit the castle.” 

The prince called his people ; Bus- 
sy took advantage of the opportuni- 
ty, to leave the apartment. 

He found Le Haudouin in his cham- 
ber. It was he whom he sought 

He conducted him into the duke’s 
writing-closet, wrote a few words, en- 
tered a hot-house adjoining it, gath- 
ered a nosegay of roses, rolled the note 
round the stalks, passed into the sta- 
ble, saddled Roland, placed the nose- 
gay in the hand of Le Haudouin, and 
requested Le Haudouin to place him- 
self in the saddle. 

Then leading him out of the town, 
as Haman conducted Mordecai, he 
guided him into a sort of blind path. 

“ There,” said he, u suffer Roland 
to go as he will ; at the end of the 
path you will find yourself in the 
forest, in the heart of the forest there 
is a park, and around the park there 
is a wall, at the spot of the wall 
before which Roland shall stop, you 
shall cast this nosegay.” 

u He who is expected, comes not,” 
said the note, “ because he who was 
not expected has come, and that more 
menacing than ever, because he still 
loves. Take with your lips and your 
heart all that this paper contains, 
invisible to the eyes.” 

Remy loosened the bridle of Ro- 
land, who set off at a gallop in the 
direction of Meridor. 

Bussy returned to the ducal palace, 
and found the prince completely 
dressed. 

As for Remy, it was but half an 
hour’s task to him. Carried like a 
C-0ud by the wind, placing full faith 


on the words of his master, Remy 
traversed meadows, fields, woods, 
brooks, hillocks, and stopped at 
length, at a wall somewhat dilapida- 
ted, the coping stones of which, tapes- 
tried by ivy, appeared to be linked 
by it to the branches of the tall oaks 
beyond it. 

Once arrived there, Remy stood in 
his stirrups, for Roland stopped ab- 
ruptly, fastened the note more firmly 
than before to the nosegay, and ut- 
tering a vigorous hem , cast the bunch 
of roses over the wall. A small cry 
which resounded from the farther side, 
assured him that the message had 
come to the right hand. 

Remy had nothing more to do, for 
he had not been commanded to seek 
any reply. 

He turned, therefore, his horse’s 
head in the direction from which he 
had come, though the animal seemed 
little disposed to return, choosing 
rather to make his breakfast on the 
mast and acorns of the forest, and 
displayed considerable dissatisfac- 
tion at this interruption of his habits. 
But Remy made a serious application 
of both spur and thong. Rolancf 
perceived his fault, and set forth at 
his habitual pace. 

Forty minutes afterward, he found 
himself in his new stable, as much at 
home as he had found himself in the 
coppice, and immediately proceeded 
to take up his post in front of a crib, 
well supplied with hay, and a manger 
stuffed with oats. 

Bussy was employed in visiting the 
chateau together with the prince. 

Remy came up to them just as 
they were examining a subterranean 
pass leading to a postern 

u Well r” he inquired of his mes- 
senger, u what have you seen ? what 
have you heard ? what have you ac- 
complished ?” 

u A wall, a cry, seven leagues,” 
replied Remy, as laconically as one 
of those Spartan boys who used to 
cause their bowels to be devoured 
by foxes for the greater glory of the 
laws of Lycurgus. 


THE 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; 

OR, 

LADY OF MOASOREAU. 


PART V. 


CHAPTER I. 

A COVEY OF ANGEVINS. 

Bussy succeeded so well in occupying 
the Duke of Anjou in his warlike 
preparations, that for two days he 
neither found time to go to Meridor, 
nor to cause the baron to come to 
Angers. 

Sometimes, however, the duke re- 
turned to his original ideas of paying 
that vibit. But, as soon as he did 
so, Bussy p\ tyed the part of the active 
officer, examined the muskets of the 
guard, caused all the horses of the 
troopers to be equipped as if for war, 
rolled cannon to and fro, and fitted 
their carriages, as if it were a ques- 
tion of conquering the fifth part of 
the world. 

When Remy perceived this, he set 
himself to scraping lint, ‘arranging 
his instruments, preparing his splints, 
as if it were a question of curing the 
whole human race. 

Then the duke recoiled before the 
vastness of those preparations. 

It will be understood without espe- 
cial mention of the fact, that f om time 
to time, under the pretext- of examin- 
ing the exterior fortifications, Bussy 
would leap on the back of Roland, 
arrive within thirty minutes at the 
base of a certain wall, • which he 
climbed the more lightly in conse- 
quence of the fact that at every stride 


he brought down a stone or two, and 
that the coping, as it crumbled 
beneath his weight, was daily becom- 
ing more and more a breach. 

As for Roland, it was unnecessary 
any longer to hint to him whither he 
should go. Bussy had only to cast 
loose the reins, and close his eyes. 

u Here are two days gained,” said 
Bussy, “it will, indeed, be bad luck 
if, in the course of the next, some 
little bit of good luck do not befal 
me.” 

Bussy was not wrong in counting 
on his good fortune. 

Toward the evening of the third 
day, a vast convoy of provisions was 
introduced into the town, produced 
by a requisition levied on the good 
and faithful Angevins, and while 
Monsieur de Anjou, like a good 
soldier, was eating the black bread 
of the men, and greedily biting the 
salt herrings and dried codfish, a 
great row was heard from the gates of 
the town. 

Monsieur d’ Anjou inquired what 
was the occasion of this tumult, but 
no one could inform him. 

The consequence of all this was 
the distribution of a good many 
blows with partizan shafts, and a 
good many blows with musket-butts to 
a crowd of citizens who had been at 
tracted to the spot by the novelty of 
the spectacle. 

A man mounted on a white horse 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


323 

literally streaming with sweat, had 
presented himself at one of the gates 
of Paris. 

Monsieur Bussy, in pursuance of 
his system of intimidation, had pro- 
cured himself to be nominated captain 
general of the country of Anjou, 
grand master of all the places, and 
had established the severest disci- 
pline throughout Angers especially. 
±\o one could go forth from the town 
without a password, no one could 
enter it without the same password, 
or without a letter of summons, or 
some other token of allegiance to the 
cause. 

All this discipline had no other 
end than to prevent the duke from 
sending any person to Diana without 
his knowing it, and to prevent Diana 
from entering Angers without his 
being informed of it. 

This may, perhaps, appear to be a 
little exaggerated, but at a period 
fifteen years later, Buckingham per- 
formed far greater acts of madness 
in behalf of Ann of Austria. 

The man and the white horse came 
up then, as I have stated, at a furious 
gallop, and had ridden straightways 
into the outpost. 

But the outpost had its counter- 
sign ; the countersign had been given 
to the sentinel ; the sentinel had 
lowered his partizan ; the cavalier 
had appeared to care very little about 
that, but the sentinel had cried to 
arms ! The outpost had turned out, 
and it had become necessary to enter 
upon explanation. 

u I am Antraguet,” the horseman 
had exclaimed, u and I desire to 
speak with the Duke d’Anjou.” 
u We know nothing of Antraguet,” 
the captain of the guard had made 
answer, u as to your speaking with 
the Duke of Anjou, your desire shall 
be gratified, since we will arrest you 
and carry you before his Highness.” 
u Arrest me !” answered the cava- 
lier, u here is a merry scoundrel, to 
talk of arresting Charles de Balzac 
d’Entragues, baron of Guise, count 
of Gravina.” 


u It will be done so, nevertheless,” 
replied the citizen, who had twenty 
men at his back, and saw but one in 
front, and he settled his gorget as he 
spoke. 

u Wait a little, my good friends,” 
answered Antraguet, u you do not 
know much of our Parisians yet, I 
fancy. Well, I will give you a slight 
example of what they know how to 
dor” 

u Let us arrest him ; let us carry 
him before Monseigneur,” cried the 
enraged militia-men. 

u Gently, my little lambs of Anjou,” 
said Antraguet, u it is I who will 
have that pleasure.” 

u What is he saying now ?” asked 
one of the burgher guard. 

u He is saying that his horse has 
only travelled ten leagues as yet,” 
replied Antraguet, u which means 
that he will gallop, belly to the 
ground, over all of you, if you do not 
stand aside. Stand aside, therefore, 
or ventrebamf — ” 

And then, as the burghers of Angers 
did not appear to comprehend the 
Parisian oath, Antraguet drew his 
sword, and with a very showy flour- 
ish, had cut assunder the shafts of 
the nearest halberts, the points of 
which were levelled against him. 

In less than ten minutes, fifteen oi 
twenty halberts were converted into 
broomsticks. 

The furious burghers then plied the 
new comer with cudgel blows, which 
he warded off before, behind, to the 
right, to the left, with infinite ad- 
dress, laughing all the time with hi? 
whole heart. 

u Ah ! what a pleasant entrance !” 
said he, twisting himself in his saddle 
to avoid a blow. “ Oh ! honest burgh- 
ers of Angers ! Morbleu ! how plea- 
santly they amuse themselves here ! 
How right the prince was to leave 
Paris, and how well I did to follow 
him hither !” 

And Antraguet now not only par- 
ried more delicately than before, but 
now and then, when he found himself 
pressed too closely, cut open, with 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


329 


his Spanish blade, the buff coat of 
this man, the steel cap of that, and 
sometimes, choosing out his fellow, 
stunned, with the flat of his sword, 
some imprudent warrior, who rushed 
into the fray having his head pro- 
tected only by a woollen bonnet of 
Anjou. 

The pack of burghers laid on lus- 
tily, leaving one another, and then 
returning with double courage to the 
fray. Like the soldiers of Cadmus, 
one would have said that they had 
issued from the ground. 

Antraguet felt that he was begin- 
ning to grow weary. 

u Come,” said he, seeing the ranks 
become more and more serried, 
a this is well. You are as brave as 
lions, that is admitted, and I will 
bear witness to the fact. But you 
see that you have only the shafts of 
your halberts left, and that your mus- 
kets are not loaded. I had resolved 
to enter the town, but I was not 
aware that it was defended by a 
whole army of Caesars. I give up the 
idea of conquering you ; farewell, 
good night ; only tell the prince that 
I came from Paris on purpose to see 
him.” 

By this time, however, the captain 
had succeeded in lighting the match 
of his musket, but, at the moment 
when he was bringing the butt to his 
shoulder, Antraguet dealt him such a 
terrible cut over the fingers with his 
flexible cane, that he let fall his wea- 
pon, and began to dance alternately 
on the right foot and the left. 

“ To death with him ! to death 
with him !” shouted the wounded and 
enraged militia-man, a let him not fly, 
suffer him not to escape.” 

u Ah!” said Antraguet, “ a little 
while ago you would not allow me to 
enter, now you will not let me go out. 
Beware, or I will change my tactics. 
Instead of using the flat, I will use 
edge and point : instead of cutting 
down halberts, I will cut off fingers. 
Come, come, my lambs of Anjou, will 
you allow me to depart ?” 

“•No ! death! death! He is 


growing weary! Let us knock his 
brains out.” 

“Very well. It is now to be down- 
right earnest !” 

“ Yes ! yes !” 

u Well ! look out for fingers. I cut \ 
at the hand.” 4l 

Scarce had he finished speaking and 
begun to put himself in a position of 
executing his menace, when a second 
horseman appeared on the horizon, 
galloping up with the same frenzy, 
entered the barrier at redoubled speed, 
and burst like a thunderbolt into the 
middle of this melee, which was turn- 
ing itself rapidly into a serious com- 
bat. 

“ Hallo ! Antraguet,” cried the 
newcomer, “ what the devil are you 
doing in the middle of these burgh- 

£5 D 

ers ?” 

“Ha! Livarot !” cried Antraguet, 
turning himself about ; “ ha ! mor- 
dieu ! you are well come. Montjou 
and Saint-Denis, to the rescue.” 

“ I knew that I should overtake 
you. I got tidings of you about four 
hours ago, and from that time I have 
been following you. But what mess 
have you thrust yourself into now ? 
Are they massacring you, God forgive 
me ?” 

“ Yes ; they are our friends of An- 
jou, who will neither let me come in 
nor go out.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Livarot, taking 
off his hat, “ will you be so obliging 
as to file off to the right and left, in 
order that we may pass through you ?” 
“ They insult us,” cried the burgh- 
ers, u death ! death !” 

“ Ha ! this is the way they act at 
Angers !” said Livarot, replacing his 
hat on his head with one hand, and 
drawing his sword with the other. 

“ Yes, you will soon see,” said 
Antraguet. “ Unluckily there are a 
great many of them.” 

“ Bah ! with us three, we shall 
soon get to an end of them.” 

“ Yes, with us three, if we were but 
three. But we are only two.” 

“ Here comes Riberac.” 

“ What, he also ?” 


# 


330 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Do you not hear him ?” 
u I see him. Ho ! Riberac. Ho, 
there! here!” 

In fact, at that very moment, Ri- 
berac, not in less haste than his com- 
panions, as it appeared, entered An- 
gers in the same way with them. 

u Oh ! people are fighting here,” 
said Riberac. u Here is a chance. 
Good morning, Antraguet ; good 
morning, Livarot.” 

“Let us charge them,” replied An- 
traguet. 

The militiamen gazed in astonish- 
ment at this new reinforcement which 
had come up to the two friends, who 
from assailed were about to become 
assailants. 

“ Ah ’ how is this ? they are a 
regiment, 1 see,” said the captain of 
militia to his men. u Messieurs, our 
order of battle appears to me to be 
faulty. I propose that we make a 
half wheel to the left about.” 

The burghers executed at once a 
half wheel to the left, with that de- 
gree of ability which is usually to be 
discovered in all the movements of 
such worthies. 

In fact, setting aside the orders of 
their captain, which naturally recall- 
ed them to prudent thoughts, they 
saw three cavaliers, arrayed in front 
of them with a countenance so mar- 
tial, that it alarmed their bravest. 

“ It is their vanguard,” cried the 
burghers, who wished to make an ex- 
cuse to themselves for taking to their 
heels. “ Alarm ! alarm !” 

u Fire ! fire !” cried the others. 
“ Fire !” 

u The enemy ! the enemy !” shout- 
ed the greater number. 

u We are fathers of families. We 
owe our lives to our women and our 
children. Save himself he who can !” 
shouted the captain. 

By reason of these diverse cries, 
all of which, nevertheless, as will 
readily be seen, had the same object, 
a hideous tumult arose in the street, 
cudgel blows tell like hail on the cu- 
rious spectators, whose dense circle 


hindered the cowards from betaking 
themselves to flight. 

It was at this time that the noise of 
the skirmish reached the place in front 
of the chateau, where, as we have ob- 
served, the prince was tasting black 
bead, salt herrings, and dried codfish, 
destined for the food of his followers. 

Bussy and the prince inquired; 
and were told speedily, that it was 
three men, or rather, three incarnate 
devils, who had just come up from 
Paris, who were making all the tu- 
mult. 

u Three men !” said the prince. 
u Go and see what it means, Bus- 
sy.” 

“ Three men !” said Bussy. (< Come 
with me, Monseigneur. 

And they set off together, Bussy 
leading the way, the prince following 
him prudently, accompanied by a 
score of cavaliers. 

They arrived just as the burghers 
were executing their last manoeuvre, 
to the great detriment of their shoul- 
ders, and heads of the spectators. 

Bussy stood up in his stirrups, and 
his eagle eye piercing the melee, he 
recognized Livarot, by his long face. 

u Mort de ma vie /” he exclaimed 
in his voice of thunder, u come hi- 
ther with all speed, Monseigneur, it is 
our friends from Paris who are be- 
sieging us.” 

u No. No,” cried Liverot, in a 
voice which overpowered all the din ; 
u it is, on the contrary, } f our friends 
of Anjou, who are flaying us alive.” 

u Down with your arms ! down 
with your arms!” cried the duke. 
“ Down with your arms! rogues! 
They are friends.” 

u Friends !” cried the burghers, 
bruised, wounded, and bleeding. 
u Friends ! it would be by far better, 
then, to give them the password ; 
this last hour we have been treating 
them like Pagans, and they treating 
us like Turks.” 

And the retrograde movement wag 
completed. 

Livarot, Antraguet, and Riberac, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


331 


advanced triumphantly into the space 
left free by the retreat of the burgh- 
ers, and all three hastened to kiss the 
hands of his Royal Highness ; after 
which, each in his turn cast himself 
into the arms of Bussy. 

u It appears,” said the captain, 
philosophically, u that what we have 
been taking for a flight of vultures, was, 
in truth, only a covey of Argevins.” 
u Monseigneur le Hue,” said Bus- 
sy, gliding up to the duke’s ear, 
u count your militia men, I pray 
you.” 

“ Wherefore ?” 

u Count, I pray you ; by the lot if 
you please ; I do not say one by one.” 
u They are at least a hundred and 
fifty strong.” 

u Yes, at least.” 

u Well, what do you mean to say ?” 
u I mean to say, that you have 
capital soldiers there, since three 
men have beaten them.” 

u That is true,” said the Duke. 

Ci What next ?” ! 

u This. It will be wise to march I 
out of the town with such brave fel- 
lows as these.” 

u Yes,” said the duke. u But I, 
■you see, shall march out with these 
men, who beat the others,” said the 
duke. 

u Hola !” said Bussy. u I never 
thought of that. There are nothins; 

o o 

like paltroons, to make close rea- 
soners !” 


CHAPTER II. 


ROLAND. 

Thanks to the reinforcement which 

had reached him, Monseigneur le 

Due d’Anjou could apply himself to 

endless reeonnoissances of the nemh- 

© 

borhood. 

Accompanied by his friends who 
had come up so opportunely, he 
marched with a war equipage of which 
the burghers of Angers showed them- 
selves inexpressibly proud, although 


the comparison between those gentle- 
men, splendidly mounted, and admi- 
rably equipped, with the tattered 
harness and rusty armors of the urban 
militia, was not exactlv to the advan- 
tage of the latter. 

First, the ramparts were examined, 
then the gardens adjoining the ram" 
parts, then the country close adjoin- 
ing the gardens, then the castles scat- 
tered throughout the country ; and it 
was not without a feeling of very 
strongly marked arrogance, that the 
duke cast a slant glance, as he passed 
either near or through them, at the 
woods which had frightened him so 
much, or with which, to speak more 
correctly, Bussy had frightened him 
so much. 

The gentlemen of Anjou came up 
with plenty of money ; they found in 
the court of the Duke of Anjou a degree 
of liberty for which they looked in vain 
in the court of Henry the Third 
They could not, therefore, fail to lead 
a jolly life, in a town perfectly well 
disposed, as every capital ought to be, 
to pillage the purses of its guests. 

Three days had not elapsed before 
D’Antraguet, Riberac, and Livarot, 
had attached themselves on terms of 
the utmost intimacy with three nobles 
of Anjou, who were most enamored 
of Parisian modes and habits. It is 
of course unnecessary to add that 
these three nobles had young and 
beautiful wives. 

Moreover, it was by no means for 
his own private pleasure, as persons 
would have been naturally inclined to 
believe, that the Duke of Anjou 
eneourag-ed all those gay and joyous 
cavalcades about the town. No. 
These cavalcades were for the enter- 
tainment of the Parisian gentlemen 
who had come to join him, of the 
lords, and yet more of the ladies of 
Anjou. 

Providence, in the first place, had 
much cause to rejoice, for the cause 
of the League was incontestably the 
cause of Providence. 

Then the King had incontestably 
reason to be angry. 


332 


DIANA OF MERIDOR : OR, 


Again, the ladies were happy. 

Thus it was, that the great triple 
alliance of that time, the Lord, the 
King, and the Ladies, were all repre- 
sented. 

Public joy was at its height, how- 
ever, on that day when two and 
twenty led saddle horses, thirty 
draught horses, and forty mules, were 
seen to enter the town in splendid 
condition, composing, with the litters 
and ammunition wagons, Monsieur 
the Duke of Anjou’s equipage. 

All this came from Tours, as it 
were, by enchantment, being the pro- 
duct of the modest sum of fifty thou- 
sand crowns, which the Duke of An- 
jou had devoted to the purpose. 

It must be stated here, that the 
horses were saddled, but that the sad- 
dlers had not been paid for the sad- 
dles. It must be admitted, that the 
coffers had superb locks, carefully se- 
cured by bolts and key ; but then the 
coffers were empty. It must be ad- 
mitted that this last point was all to 
the prince’s credit, for he might easily 
have filled them by exactions. 

But it was not the prince’s dispo- 
sition to take openly. He preferred 
filching. 

Nevertheless, the entrance of the 
equipage produced a marvellous effect 
in Angers. 

The horses were put up in the sta- 
bles ; the cars were arranged in the 
carriage-houses. The coffers were 
carried in by the trustiest attendants 
of the prince. It was necessary that 
the hands should be very trusty, to 
which was committed the care of those 
sums which the coffers did not con- 
tain. 

To conclude, the doors of the pal- 
ace were shut in the teeth of a*gap- 
ing crowd, which was convinced by 
that measure of precaution, that the 
prince had introduced two minions 
into the town, whereas, on the other 
hand, the object was to get out of the 
town a sum about equal to that at- 
tributed to the empty coffers. 

The reputation of Monsieur the 
Duke of Anjou’s opulence was solidly j 


established from that day forth, and 
all the province was satisfied, . after 
the spectacle which had passed be- 
fore its eyes, that he was rich enough 
to wage war on all Europe, should 
such be his pleasure. 

This confidence assisted the burgh- 
ers to endure patiently the new tax- 
es which, aided by the counsels of his 
friends, the duke prosed to levy on 
the people of Anjou. Beside which, 
the people of Anjou were disposed 
even to go beyond the desires of the 
duke. 

No one regrets the money which 
he lends or gives to the rich. 

The King of Navarre, with his re- 
puted poverty, could not have ob- 
tained a fourth of the sum which the 
Duke of Anjou levied by means of 
his reputed wealth. 

But to return to the Duke. 

That worthy prince lived as a patri- 
arch, filled to overflowing with all the 
good things of the land ; and every- 
body knows that Anjou is a good 
land. 

The roads were covered with horse- 
men, hurrying to Angers, to offer 
their submission, or tender their ser- 
vices to the Duke. 

On his side, Monsieur d’ Anjou 
was constantly pressing on his recon- 
noissances, always for the discovery of 
some treasure. 

Bussy had contrived, however, that 
none of these reconnoissances should 
be advanced to the chateau inhabited 
by his Diana. This was because 
Bussy reserved this treasure for him- 
self, pillaging that little corner of the 
province which, after defending itself 
with due credit, had at length sur- 
rendered at discretion. 

Now, while Monsieur d’Aujou was 
reconnoitring, and Bussy pillaging, 
Monsieur de Monsoreau arrived at 
the gates of Anjou, mounted upon his 
hunter. 

It might be four o’clock in the eve- 
ning ; in order to arrive at four 
o’clock, Monsieur de Monsoreau had 
travelled eighteen leagues daring tha* 
j day. Therefore his spurs were red, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


333 


and his horse, white with foam, was 
half dead. 

The time for offering difficulties to 
those who arrived at the city gates 
had now passed. For people were so 
proud, so disdainful, in Angers, that 
they would have allowed a battalion 
of Swiss to enter unchallenged, had 
they been commanded even by the 
brave Crillon in person. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau, who was 
not exactly Crillon, entered direct- 
ly, saying : # * 

u To the palace of Monseigneur of 
Anjou.” 

He did not listen to the reply 
which the guards shouted after him, 
his horse seemed as if it kept its legs 
only by the intervention of a miracle, 
unless the equilibrium which it main- 
tained was due to the very speed 
with which it advanced. It went on, 
poor animal, without having any con- 
sciousness that it was alive, and it 
was a fair bet that it would fall so 
soon as it should stand still. 

He stopped at the palace. But 
Mons. de Monsoreau was a magnifi- 
cent horseman, the horse was tho- 
rough bred, and horse and horseman 
both stood steadily erect. 

u Monsieur the duke !” cried the 
master of the royal hounds. 

u Monseigneur has gone to make a 
reconnoissance,” said the sentinel. 

a Whither?” asked Mons. de 
Monsoreau. 

u In that direction,” replied the 
sentinel, waving his hand to one of the 
four cardinal points of the compass. 

u The devil,” said Monsoreau. 
u That which I had to say to the duke 
was very pressing ; what am I to do ?” 
u First, put your horse into the 
stable,” said the sentinel in misera- 
bly broken French, for he was a vic- 
tor from Alsatia, u for if you do not 
prop him up against a wall, he will 
tumble down.” 

u The advice is good, though made 
in bad French,” said Monsoreau. 
u And where are the stables, my good 
fellow ?” 

u Down yonder.” 


At this moment, a person advanced, 
wearing the appearance of a gentle- 
man, and offered bis services. 

It was the major-domo. 

Mons. de Monsoreau replied in his 
turn by the enumeration of his name, 
Christian name and titles. 

The major-domo bowed respect- 
fully, for the titles of the Master of 
the Stag-Hounds were known of old 
in the province. 

u Monsieur,” said he, u be pleased 
to enter and take some refreshment. 
It is scarce ten minutes since Mon- 
seigneur went forth : his Highness 
will not return until the evening, at 
eight o’clock.” 

u At eight o’clock in the evening !” 
replied Monsoreau, biting his mous- 
tache. u That would be losing too 
much time. I bear news of the great- 
est importance to his Highness, which 
he cannot receive too quickly. Have 
you not a horse and a guide to give 
me ?” 

u As to a horse, there are ten, 
Monsieur,” replied the major-domo. 
a For a guide it is quite a different 
thing. For Monseigneur did not 
say whither he was going, and by 
asking as you go along, you may 
learn all that any one can tell you. 
Besides, I dare not leave the palace 
unguarded : that is alwavs the first of 
his Highness’ instructions.” 

u Ah ! ah !” said the Grand- 
Huntsman, u are you not then in 
safety here ?” 

u Oh ! Monsieur one is always in 
safety in the midst of such men as 
Messieurs Bussy, Livarot, Riberac, 
Antraguet, without reckoning our 
invincible Monseigneur the Duke of 
Anjou. But you understand.” 

u Yes, I understand that when 
they are not present, there is no more 
safety.” 

u Hi at is the very thing, Mon- 
sieur.” 

u Then I will take a fresh horse 
from the stable of Monseigneur, and 
will endeavor to overtake his High- 
ness, by inquiring as I go.” 

“ It would be safe to bet that by 


334 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


doing so, you will overtake Mon- 1 
seigneur.” 

44 He did not then set forth at a 
gallop ?” 

“At foot’s pace, Monseigneur, at 
foot’s pace.” 

44 Very well. It is a settled thing. 
Show me which horse I am to ride.” 
^ Enter the stable yourself, Mon- 
seigneur, and select whatever horse 
shall please you ; they all belong to 
Monseigneur. ’ 

“ Very well.” 

Monsoreau entered. 

Ten or twelve horses, the hand- 
somest, and in the best condition 
possible, were munching an ample 
feed from mangers filled with the 
choicest grain and forage of Anjou. 

“ Here they are,” said the major- 
domo — 44 choose.” 

Monsoreau cast the eye of a con- 
noisseur over the range of quadru- 
peds. 

“ I will take that brown bay horse. 
Saddle him for me.” 

“ Roland!” 

“ Is his name Roland ?” 

“ Yes, he is his Highness’ favorite 
horse. He rides him every day. 
He was given to him by Monsieur 
Bussy. And you certainly would not 
have found him in the stable, if his 
Highness had not been trying one of 
the new horses from Tours, which 
have just arrived.” 

“It seems then that I am not 
a bad judge at a glance.” 

A groom came up at this moment. 
44 Saddle Roland,” said the major- 
domo. As to the count’s horse, he 
had himself walked into the stable, 
and stretched himself out on a bed of 
litter, without even waiting until his 
harness should be taken off him. 

Roland was saddled in a few 
seconds, and Mons. de Monsoreau, 
leaping lightly into the saddle, in- 
quired a second time what direction 
the cavalcade had taken. 

“It went out by that gate, and 
followed that street,” said the major- 
domo, pointing in the same direction 
with that indicated by the sentinel. 


“ Upon my honor,” said 
reau loosing the bridle, anc 
that, the horse took the same road of 
his own accord, “ one would say that 
Roland followed their scent.” 

“ Oh ! do not be surprised,” said 
the major-domo. “ I heard Monsieur 
de Bussy say, and I have also heard 
his physician, M. Remy, observe the 
same thing, that he was the most in- 
telligent animal in existence ; so 
soon as he shall smell his companions 
he will overtake them. See what 
fine legs he has ! A stag might well 
envy them.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau leaned to 
one side. 

44 Magnificent,” he said. 

And in truth the horse set out 
without awaiting the spur, and went 
forth very deliberately from the city. 
He soon took a side turn beforo 
reaching the gate, in order to shorten 
the road, which here branched circu- 
larly off from the right hand to tho 
left. 

As he was in the very act of giving 
this token of intelligence, the horse 
shook his head, as if to get rid of the 
pressure of the bridle on his lips. 
He seemed to be informing the cava- 
lier that all influence to subdue him 
would be useless ; and in proportion 
as he drew near to the city gate, so 
did he accelerate his pace. 

44 In truth,” murmured Monsoreau, 
“ I see that they have not told me 
too much. Therefore, since you know 
your road so well, go on, Roland.” 

And he cast his reins loose upon 
the neck of Roland. 

The horse, having reached the outer 
Boulevard, hesitated for a moment 
in order to ascertain whether he should 
turn to the right or to the left 

He turned to the left. 

A peasant was passing at that mo- 
ment. 

“ Have you seen a troop of horse- 
men, my good friend ?” asked Mon- 
soreau. 

“ Yes, Monsieur,” replied the rus- 
tic. “ 1 met them a little way off 
yonder ’’ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


335 


It was exactly the direction taken 
by Roland, in which the peasant had 
met the company. 

u Go, Roland, go,” said the Grand- 
Huntsman, casting the reins loose to 
the good horse, who struck into a 
long slashing trot, which would cover, 
perhaps, three or four leagues in the 
hour. 

After following the road by the 
ramparts for some distance, he turned 
short off to the right, and took a 
flowery foot-path, which cut directly 
across the country. 

Monsoreau hesitated for one mo- 
ment to know whether Roland would 
not now stop, but Roland appeared 
to be perfectly well aware what he 
was about, and he allowed him to go 
on uninterrupted. 

As the horse advanced farther he 
became more and more animated. 
He passed from his trot to his gallop, 
and in less than a quarter of an hour 
the town had disappeared from the 
eyes of the horseman. On his side, 
also, as he advanced, the rider began 
to recognize the country through 
which he was passing. 

“ Ha ! what is this?” said he, as 
he entered the covert of the woods. 
u It seems we are going through Me- 
ridor ; can it be possible that his 
Highness should have directed his 
steps by chance to the chateau r” 
And the Master of the StaMiounds 
felt his brow grow darker at the idea, 
which did not now present itself to 
his mind for the first time. 

u Oh ! oh !” he murmured, u shall 
I, who came first to see the prince, 
deferring until to-morrow my visit to 
my wife, shall I then have the happi- 
ness to see them both at once ?” 

A terrible smile crossed the lips of 
the Grand- Huntsman. 

The horse went onward still, con- 
tinuing to bear to the right' hand with 
a tenacity indicated by the steadiest 
and most regular pace. 

u But, on my soul,” thought Mon- 
soreau, u I ought not now to be very 
far* distant from the park at Meri- 
dor.” 


At this moment a horse began to 
neigh. 

At the same instant another neigh 
replied to him from the foliage. 

u Ah ha !” said the master of the 
hounds. u It seems to me that Ro- 
land has found a comrade. 

The horse redoubled his speed, 
darting like lightning under a forest 
of tall trees. 

Suddenly Monsoreau perceived a 
wall, and a horse fastened to the 
wall. The horse neighed again, and 
Monsoreau recognized it for that 
which had neighed before. 

“ Ah ! there is some one here,” 
said Monsoreau, turning very pale. 


CHAPTER III. 

WHAT MONSIEUR DE MONSOREAU CAME 
TO ANNOUNCE. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau advanced 
from surprise to surprise. That wall 
of Meridor met, as it were, by en- 
chantment ; that horse caressing the 
horse which he rode, as if they were 
intimate acquaintances. In truth, 
there was something suspicious in all 
this. 

As he approached, and it will 
be easily divined that Monsieur de 
Monsoreau approached rapidly, he 
discovered the dilapidation of the 
wall at this spot ; it was, in fact, ac- 
tually a ladder, which threatened, 
ere long, to become a breach. The 
hollows in the stony steps appeared 
to have been worn by the foot of 
man, and the brambles hung down, 
recently torn from the wounded 
branches. 

The count took in the whole at a 
single glance of his eye. Then from 
the whole he descended to the de- 
tails. 

The horse deserved the first place ; 
he obtained it. The indiscreet ani- 
mal bore a saddle garnished with 


336 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


housings wrought in silver. In one of 
the corners was a double F, entwined 
with a double A. 

There was no room for doubt ; it 
was a horse from the prince’s stable, 
since the ciphers stood for Francis 
of Anjou 

The count’s suspicion was convert- 
ed by this sight into alarm. The 
duke bad then, in truth, come this 
way. He came this way often, since, 
in addition to the horse which was 
tied here, he had yet another that 
knew the road. 

Monsoreau came at once to the 
conclusion that since chance had put 
him on the track, he must follow that 
track to the end. 

This was, in the first place, a na- 
tural tendency of the Master of the 
Staghounds, and, in fact, o any jeal- 
ous husband. 

But so long as he should remain 
on this side of the wall, it was evi- 
dent that he should see nothing. 

Fastening his horse, in conse- 
quence, close by that which was there 
already, he began carefully to esca- 
lade the wall. 

It was an easy matter ; one foot 
seemed to allure the other forward ; 
the curve of an elbow was marked in 
the soft stone on the top of the wall ; 
and a knife had carefully trimmed 
away the branches of an oak in that 
spot, where its foliage would other- 
wise have impeded the view, and hin- 
dered the free movement of the 
limbs. 

So many efforts, of course, had 
produced perfect facility ; and scarce- 
ly had Monsieur de Monsoreau taken 
post in his observatory, when he per- 
ceived at the foot of a tree a woman’s 
blue mantilla, and a man’s black vel- 
vet cloak. The sexes of the persons 
were sufficiently indicated by the 
garments, but had they not been so, 
it would not have been necessary to 
seek long ; for in a moment or two, 
the man and woman walked forward, 
at some fifty paces’ distance, with 
their arms interlocked, their backs 
turned to the wall, and their forms 


partially concealed by the leaves of 
the underwood. 

Unluckily for Monsieur de Monso- 
reau, who had not accustomed the 
wall to his violent outbursts of 
temper, a wrought stone detached it- 
self from the coping, and fell, tearing 
its way through the bushes to the 
grass, on which it fell with a heavy 
dint. 

At that noise, it seemed that the 
persons whose features were concealed 
from Monsieur de Monsoreau by the 
bushes, turned round and perceived 
him, fora sharp and significant cry was 
heard in a feminine tone ; then a sud- 
den rustling in the foliage informed the 
count that they had betaken them- 
selves to flight, like two frightened 
roc-deer. 

At the female cry, Monsoreau felt 
the sweat of anguish bedew his whole 
brow. He had recognized the voice 
of Diana. 

From that moment forth, incapable 
of resisting the emotions of fury 
which he felt, he sprang down from 
the summit of the wall, and, sword in 
hand, began to cut and slash among 
the brush and underwood, in pursuit 
of the fugitives. 

But everything had disappeared, 
nothing disturbed the silence of the 
park. Not a shadow in the remoter 
alleys, not a trace on the deep green- 
sward, not a sound among the clumps 
of trees ; if it were not the songs of 
the linnets and nightingales, which, 
accustomed to the presence of the 
lovers, were in no sort disturbed by 
them. 

What should he do in that deep 
solitude ? What resolve ? Whither 
run ? The park was spacious, it was 
very possible for one pursuing those 
whom he did seek, to find those wffiom 
he sought not. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau thought 
that the discovery which he had made 
was sufficient for the moment more- 
over, he felt himself actuated by feel- 
ings far too violent to leave him suf- 
ficiently master of himself, to act 
with the prudence which it became 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


337 


him 1 3 adopt, in presence of a rival 
so formidable as Francis, for he never 
entertained a doubt but that Francis 
was his rival. Moreover, if by 
chance it should not be he, he had a 
very pressing mission to discharge to 
the Duke of Anjou in person, and he 
believed that once face to face with 
the prince, he should be easily ena- 
bled to judge of his innocence or 
guilt. 

Then it was, that a sublime idea 
occurred to his mind. It was to scale 
the wall in the very place in which he 
had already scaled it, and to carry off, I 
together with his own, the horse of 
the intruder, whom he had thus sur- 
prised in the park. 

This vengeful project gave him 
strength, he resumed his rapid course, 
and reached the foot of the wall 
panting, and covered with dust and 
perspiration. 

Then helping himself by every 
branch, he reached the summit, and 
dropped down on the other side. 
But once on the other side, there was 
no longer any horse, or to speak more 
correctly any horses. The idea was 
so excellent which had struck him, 
that, before striking him, it had struck 
his enemy, and that enemy had 
promptly profited by it. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau, perfectly 
overcome by his rage, uttered a roar 
of anger, shaking his fist at the mali- 
cious demon, who was undoubtedly 
mocking him, in the deep shadow of 
the woods. But as his will was not 
a quality readily to be overcome, he 
raised himself up with a powerful re- 
action against the successive fatali- 
ties, which seemed to vie with each 
other to undo him, and set ting off on 
the very instant, in despite of the 
rapid approaches of night, he mus- 
tered all his strength, and returned to 
Angers by a cross road, which he had 
known since his childhood. 

Two hours and a half afterward, 
he reached the city gates half dead 
with thirst, with heat and with fa- 
tigue ; but the excitement of his mind 
had given power t^ the body, and he 


was still the same man as ever, of vio 
lent will and violent passions. 

Moreover, an idea sustained him. 
He would question the sentinel, or 
rather the sentinels ; he would go 
from gate to gate, he would ascertain 
by which gate a man had come in 
with two horses. He would empty 
his purse, he would promise any 
amount of gold, but he would learn 
the description of the man. Then, 
be it sooner or later, that man should 
pay him the debt. 

He interrogated the sentinel, but 
the sentinel knew nothing, having but 
recently relieved a comrade. He en- 
tered the guard-house, and inquired. 
The militia-man who was in com- 
mand, had seen a horse without a 
rider enter the gates about two hours 
before, and take his way alone toward 
the palace. 

He had supposed then that some 
accident had befallen the rider, and 
that the intelligent quadruped had 
made his way home alone. 

Monsoreau struck his brow. It 
seemed to be fated that he should 
learn nothing. 

Then he betook himself to the ducal 
palace. 

There all was stirring life, and stun- 
ning sound, and wild gaiety. The 
windows shone like suns, and the 
kitchens gleamed like blazing ovens, 
sending forth from their vet-holes 
perfumes of venison and doves, capa- 
ble of making the stomach forget that 
it dwells nigh unto the heart. 

But the wickets were closed, and 
there a difficulty presented itself, ere 
they could be opened. 

Monsoreau summoned the porter, 
and gave his name, but the porter 
would not recognize him. 

u You we )rect,” he said, u and 
now you are bent almost double.’’ 

u It is fatigue.” 

u You were pal , now you are rud- 
dy.” 

u It is heat.” 

u You were on horseback, now you 
are on foot.’’ 

u It is that my horse started in fear 


338 


DIANA OF ME RID OR ; OR, 


of something, dismounted me, and 
returned without a rider. Have you 
not seen my horse r” 
u Oh ! yes, we have.” 
u Well. Then go summon the 
major-domo.” 

The porter delighted by this order, 
which at once relieved him from all 
responsibility, went and called M. 
Remy. ' 

M. Remy arrived, and instantly 
recognized Monsieur de Monsoreau. 

u And whence, in God’s name, do 
you come, and in such a state as 
this ?” he inquired of him. 

Monsoreau repeated to him the 
same tale, which he had already told 
to the porter. 

u In truth, we have been very un- 

oasv since we saw the horse return 

•/ 

without you, especially Monseigneur, 
to whom I had the honor of announc- 
ing your arrival.” 

u Ah ! and Monseigneur was very 
much disquieted, was he ?” said Mon- 
soreau. 

* 6 Very anxious, indeed.” 
u But what said he r” 
u He desired that you should be 
introduced to him at the moment of 
your arrival.” 

u Be it so, excepting only the time 
necessary to visit the stable, that I 
may see that his Highness’ horse has 
taken no injury.” 

And Monsoreau passed into the 
stable and recognized the place from 
which he had taken the intelligent 
animal, which was now feeding like a 
horse desirous of making up for lost 
time. 

Then., without even taking time to 
change his attire, for Monsoreau con- 
sidered that the importance of his 
news might prove an excuse for the 
omission of some points of etiquette, 
the master of the royal stag-hounds 
entered the eating room. 

All the prince’s gentlemen, and 
his Highness himself, collected around 
a table splendidly served and splen- 
didly lighted, were attacking phea- 
sant-pasties, fresh steaks of wild boar, 
Venison, and spiced made dishes, 


which they were washing down with 
that purple wine of Cahors, so generous 
and balmy, or with that perfidious 
sweet and sparkling wine of Anjou, • 
the fumes of which are dispersed 
through the brain even before the to- 
pazes, which it spreads around the 
rim of the glass, are altogether melted 
into air. 

u The court circle is absolutely 
complete,” said Antraguet, as rosy 
as a young girl, and as drunk as an 
old sailor, u as complete as the cel- 
lars of your Highness.” 

u Not so, not so,’’ said Riberac. 
u We miss the master of the hounds. 

It is absolutely disgraceful that we 
should be eating your Royal High- 
ness’ game, and not kill it ourselves.” 
u As for me, I vote for having some 
chief-huntsman,’’ said Livarot. u It 
matters little who, even if it be Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau.” 

The duke smiled, for he alone was 
aware of Monsieur de Monsoreau’s 
arrival. 

Livarot had scarcely, however, fin- 
ished his phrase, and the prince his 
smile, before the door opened, and 
Monsieur de Monsoreau entered. 

The duke, when he perceived him, 
uttered an exclamation, which sound- 
ed so much the more noisily from be- 
ing uttered in the middle of a dead 
silence. 

“ Well ! here he is,” cried he. 
u You see that we are favored by 
Heaven, Messieurs, since Heaven 
sends us, on the instant, him whom 
we desired to see.” 

Monsoreau, who was considerably 
annoyed by this perfect calmness of 
the King, which, in such cases, was 
not habitual to his Highness, bowed 
with an expression of some embarrass- 
ment, and turned away his head as if 
the light dazzled his eyes, suddenly 
changing from total obscurity to a 
glare of light. 

u Sit down there and sup,” said 
the duke, pointing out a place to 
Mons. de Monsoreau nearly opposite 
to himself. 

u Monseigneur,” replied Monso- 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


339 


reau, u I am very thirsty, very hun- 
gry, very much fatigued, but I will 
neither eat, drink nor sleep before I 
shall have delivered myself to your 
Highness of a message of the utmost 
importance.” 

u You come from Paris, do you 
not ?” 

u In all haste, Monseigneur.” 

“ Well. I listen.” 

Monsoreau drew near to Francis, 
and, with a smile on his lips and 
hatred in his heart, said to him in a 
whisper : 

a Monseiimeur, Madame, vour mo- 
ther, is approaching by rapid jour- 
neys. She comes to visit your High- 
ness.” 

The duke, on whom all eyes were 
fixed, suffered a sudden flash of joy to 
break forth from his face. 

u It is well,” he said, u thanks, 
Mons. de Monsoreau ; to-day, as 
ever, I find you a faithful servant 
Let us continue our supper, gentle- 
men.” 

And he drew his arm-chair, which, 
by a sudden impulse, he had pushed 
back to listen to Mons. de Monso- 
reau, back to the table. 

The feast re-commenced. The mas- 
ter of the staghounds, sitting between 
Livarot and Riberac, had scarcely 
begun to enjoy the comforts of a plea- 
sant seat, and found himself before a 
well-spread table, before he suddenly 
lost all his appetite. 

The spirit resumed the ascendency 
over the material part. 

The spirit, carried away by sad 
thoughts, returned to the park at 
Meridor, and, making anew the jour- 
ney which the wearied body had but 
now achieved, passed again, like an 
attentive pilgrim, over the flowery 
road which led it to that fatal wall. 

It again saw the neighing steed, 
again saw the dilapidated wall, again 
saw the two amorous and flying sha- 
dows, again heard the cry of Diana, 
that cry which had resounded to the 
deepest echo of his heart. 

Then, indifferent to the sounds, to 
the lights around him, indifferent even 


to repose itself, forgetful of those by 
whose side, or opposite to whom he 
sat, he buried himself in his own black 
thoughts, and, suffering the clouds to 
creep by degrees over his brow, he ut- 
tered from his inmost breast a hollow 
groan, which drew the attention of all 
the guests. 

u You are worn out with fatigue, 
Mons. the Master of the Hounds,” 
said the prince, u in truth, I think 
that you had better go to bed.” 
u Upon my honor, yes,” said Liva- 
rot, u the advice is good, since, if you 
do not take it, you seem to me to run 
a great risk of falling asleep over 
your plate.” 

u Pardon me, Monseigneur,” said 
Monsoreau, raising his head. “ In 
truth, I am crushed with fatigue.” 
u Get drunk, count,” said Antra- 
guet, u nothing overcomes weariness 
like that.” 

u And then,” murmured Monso- 
reau, u by getting drunk one forgets 
himself.” 

u Bah !” said Livarot. u There 
is no chance of it — see, Messieurs, 
his glass is yet full.” 

u To your health, count,” said 
Riberac, raising his glass. 

Monsoreau was compelled to do 
justice to the gentleman, and emptied 
his goblet at a draught. 

u Nevertheless, he drinks very well, 
does he not, Monseigneur :” said An- 
traguet. 

u Yes,” replied the prince, who 
was endeavoring to read his heart. 
u Yes, admirably.” 

u Nevertheless, you must arrange 
how we shall have a grand hunting 
party, count,” said Riberac, u you 
who know the country.” 

u You have equipages and forests 
here,” said Livarot. 

u And even a wife,” added Antra- 
guet. 

“ Yes,” repeated the count, me- 
chanically, u equipages, woods, and 
Madame de Monsoreau ; yes, Mes- 
sieurs, yes.” 

u Will you find us a boar to hunt, 
count ?’’ asked the prince. 


340 


DIANA OP MERIDOR; OR, 


44 I will endeavor, Monseigneur.” I 

14 Eh ! Pardieu /” said one of the 
gentlemen of the country, 44 that is 
a pretty answer — his wood absolutely 
swarms with wild boars. If I were 
hunting in the old coppice, I could 
rouse ten within five minutes.” 

Monsoreau again turned pale, in 
spite of all his efforts. The old cop- 
pice was exactly that part of the 
wood to which Roland had so lately 
carried him. 

44 Oh ! yes ! yes ! to-morrow, to- 
morrow !” cried all the gentlemen, in 
chorus. 

44 Will you hunt to-morrow, Mon- 
soreau r” asked the prince. 

44 1 am ever at the orders of your 
Royal Highness,” replied Monsoreau; 
44 but nevertheless, as Monseignenr 
deisrned to remark but a moment 

O 

ago, I am very much fatigued as to 
leading a hunting party to-morrow. 
Besides, I should have time to visit the 
neighborhood, and see how our woods 
lie.” 

44 And then we must let him see 
his wife — what the devil !” exclaimed 
the prince, with an affectation of good- 
nature, which convinced the poor 
husband that the duke was his rival. 

44 Granted !” cried the young men, 
with a roar of merriment. 44 We 
give Monsieur de Monsoreau four and 
twenty hours in which to do all that 
he has to do in his forests.” 

44 Yes, Messieurs give them to 
me,” said the count, 44 and I promise 
you that I will employ them to your 
satisfaction.” 

44 Now, our master of the hunt,” 
said the duke, 44 I permit you 
to go and seek your bed. Ho ! there ! 
Let them conduct Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau to his apartment.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau bowed and 
retired, relieved from a great burthen, 
that of constraint. 

Persons in affliction love solitude, 
even more than happy lovers. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW KING HENRY THE THIRD LEARN- 
ED THE FLIGHT OF HIS WELL-BE- 
LOVED BROTHER, THE DUKE OF 
ANJOU, AND OF THAT WHICH EN- 
SUED THEREFROM. 

As soon as the master of the hunt 
had once left the dining-hall, the re- 
past continued to grow gayer, more 
joyous, more free than ever it had 
been. 

The dark face of Monsoreau had 
contributed not a little to check the 
young gentlemen, for through the 
thin pretext, nay, through the very 
reality of fatigue, they had discover- 
ed that continual pressure of some 
painful subject, which had imprinted 
on the face of the count that stamp 
of mortal sadness which formed the 
principal trait of his expression. 

When he was gone, and the prince, 
always bored by his presence, had 
resumed a more tranquil air, 

44 Come, Livarot,” said the duke, 

44 you were just about relating to us 
your flight from Paris, when the mas- 
ter of the staghounds entered. Pray, 
proceed.” 

And at his request Livarot did 
proceed. 

But as our title of narrator give3 
us better means of knowing that 
which .passed than even Livarot him- | * i 
self, we shall substitute our own rela- 
tion for that of the young man. Per- 
haps it will lose something in raci- 
ness, but it will gain much in weight, 
since we know what Livarot could not || 
know, that is to say, what was pass- 
ing in the Louvre. 

Toward the middle of the night, 
Henry the Third was awakened by 
the unusual sounds which re-echoed 
through the puLa,ce, in which, so soon 
as the King had retired, the utmost 
silence was prescribed. 

It was the d’n of oaths, the clang 
of halberts, struck violently against 
the walls, of feet running rapidly 
through ' 0 f imprecations 

wild eno. the earth open; 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


341 


and amid all the din, the clatter, and 
the blasphemy, these words, repeated 
bv thousands of echoes, u What will 
the King say ? what will the King 
gay ?” 

Henry sat bolt upright in bed, and 
looked at Chicot, who, after having 
supped with his Majesty, had stretch- 
ed himself out in his arm-chair, with 
his legs entwined around his rapier. 
The sounds increased ten-fold. 
Henry leaped out of bed, all 
shining with pomatum, crying out, 
u Chicot, Chicot.” 

Chicot opened one eye. He was a 
prudent fellow, who knew the value 
of a good sleep, and who nev^r awoke 
suddenly on the first start. 

u Ah, thou wert wrong to call me, 
Henry. I was dreaming that thou 
badst a son.” 

• u Listen,” said Henry, u listen.” 
u To what would you have me lis- 
ten ? It seems, however, that you 
talk nonsense enough to me during 
the day, without taking part of my 
nights for the same purpose.” 

u Do you not hear that, then ?” 
said the King, pointing with his 
hand in the direction whence the 
sound came. 

j u Oh ! oh!” said Chicot, u now 
indeed I do hear cries.” 

u What will the King say? what 
will the King say ?” repeated Henry. 
u Do you hear that ?” 

u There are two thirds to be sus- 
pected. Either your grey-hound 
Narcissus is sick, or the Huguenots 
are taking their revenge on the catho- 
lies by a new Saint-Bartholomew.” 
u Help me to dress myself, Chi- 
cot.” 

u I will, readily, but help me to 
get up, Henry.’’ 

u What a misfortune! what a mis- 
fortune !” was the cry from the ante- 

s chambers. 

“ The devil ! this is growing seri- 

• i O O 

ous,” said Chicot. 

u We had better arm ourselves,” 
said the King. 

u We shall do better yet,” said 
Chicot, u to make haste and go forth 


by the little door, in order to see and 
judge for ourselves of the misfortune, 
instead of mereiy having it related to 
us.” 

Almost at the same instant, follow- 
ing the advice of Chicot, Henry issu- 
ed by the concealed door, and found 
himself in the corridor leading to the 
Duke of Anjou’s apartment. 

There he saw arms lifted to heav- 
en, and heard exclamations of the ut- 
most despair. 

u Oh ! oh !” said Chicot, u I can 
guess. Your unhappy prisoner must 
have strangled himself in prison. 
Ventre de Biche , Henry, you are a 
better politician than I thought 
you. ” 

u No, wretch, no!” cried Henry 
u It cannot be that.” 

u So much the worse,” said Chicot, 

u Come, come,” said Henry, and he 
dragged the Gascon into the Duke’s 
chamber. 

The window was open, and sur 
rounded by a multitude of curious 
spectators, heaped the one upon the 
other, gazing on the rope ladder 
which hung from the iron support of 
the balustrade. 

Henry turned as pale as death. 

4 * Ah ! ah ! my son,” said Chicot, 
u you are not so hardened a sinner 
as I thought you.” 

u Fled, escaped!” cried Henry, in 
a voice so sonorous that all the gen- 
tlemen turned round. 

The King’s eyes flashed lightning. 
His hand grasped the hilt of his dag- 
ger convulsively. Schomberg was 
tearing his hair ; Quelus was pommel- 
ling his face with his fists ; and Mau- 
giron was dashing his head, like a 
ram, against the wainscoting. 

As for D’Epernon, he had disappear- 
ed, under the specious pretext of seek- 
ing for Monseigneur the Duke d’An- 

o o 

jou. 

The sight of the martyrdom which 
his minions were inflicting on them- 
selves in their despair, tranquillized 
the king in a moment. 

o 

u Hola ! gently, my son !” said he, 
holding back Maugiron by the waist 


342 


DIANA OF ME RID OR ; OR, 


44 No ! Mordieu ! I will burst, or 
may the devil carry me away !” said 
the young man, now endeavoring to 
beat out his brains no longer against 
the wainscot, but now against the wall. 

u Hold ! help me to hold him back,” 
cried the King. 

44 Ho ! Ho ! gossip,” said Chicot, 
44 I can tell you an easier death : run 
your sword gently through your body. ” 
44 Will you be silent, executioner ?” 
said Henry, with tears in his eyes. 

During this time, Quelus was tear- 
ing his cheeks with his nails. 

44 Oh ! Quelus, my child, you are 
going to make yourself resemble 
Schomberg when he was dyed in 
Prussian blue. You will be hideous, 
my friend.” 

Quelus stopped. 

Schomberg, alone, continued to 
tear the hair from his temples. He 
actually wept with rage. 

44 Schomberg, Schomberg, my 
minion,” said Henry, 44 a little rea- 
son, I entreat you.” 

44 I shall go mad with it.” 

44 Bah !” said Chicot. 

44 The fact is,” Said Henry, 44 that 
it is a frightful misfortune, and it is 
for that very reason that you must 
preserve your senses. Here will be a 
civil war in my kingdom. Ah ! who 
has played this trick ? Who has fur- 
nished him with the rope ladder, 
Mordieu ! I will hang the whole 
town.i’ 

A dlfep terror fell upon all the by- 
standers. 

44 Who is the guilty one ?” con- 
tinued Henry. 44 Where is the guilty 
one ? Ten thousand crowns of gold 
to any person who will tell me his 
name ; a hundred thousand crowns 
to any one who will deliver him to 
me, alive or dead.” 

44 Who should you expect it to 
be,” said Maugiron, 44 but some one 
from Anjou ?” 

44 Pardieu ! thou art right,” said 
Henry. 44 Ah ! the men of Anjou ! 
J S death ! the men of Anjou, they 
shall pay me for it.” 

And as if these words had been a 


spark which communicates fire co a 
train of powder, a fearful explosion 
of cries and threats resounded against 
the men of Anjou. 

44 Oh, yes, the men of Anjou !” 
shouted Quelus. 

44 Where are they ?” roared Schom- 
berg. 

44 Let them be disembowelled!” 
yelled Maugiron. 

44 A hundred gallows for a hundred 
men of Anjou !” resumed the King. 

Chicot could not continue silent in 
the midst of this universal madness. 
He drew his sword with the gesture 
of a bravo, and cutting about with 
the flat of it from right to left, he 
beat the minions and wounded the 
walls, repeating, with his eyes glaring 
fiendly, 

44 Oh ! Ventre deBiche ! Oh, manly 
rage ! Oh, damnation ! The men of 
Anjou ! ’Sdeath ! The men of An- 
jou !” 

That cry, 44 Death to the men of 
Anjou !” was heard through all the 
town, even as the cry of the Jewish 
mothers was heard throughout all 
Rama. 

Nevertheless Henry had disappear- 
ed. He had thought of his mother, 
and gliding out of the room without 
uttering a word, he went in search of 
Catharine, whom of late he had neg- 
lected a little, and who, shut up in 
her apparent carelessness of earthly 
things, and affected devotion, was 
only awaiting an opportunity, with 
her Italian shrewdness, to float out 
again upon the surface of politics. , 

When Henry entered, she was half 
reclined, pensive, in a large arm- 
chair, and she resembled rather, with 
round yellowish cheeks, with her 
brilliant but fixed eyes, with her 
dimpled but sallow hands, a waxen 
image than an animated and thinking 
creature. 

But at the tidings of the escape of 
Francis, tidings which Henry gave to 
her quite abruptly, and without pre- 
paration, all enkindled as he was 
himself with rage and hatred, the 
statue seemed to awaken on a sudden, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


343 


although the gesture which announced 

O O 

that awakening was limited to the 
burying herself deeper in the arm- 
chair, and shaking her head without 
uttering a word. 

u Ah ! my mother !” said Henry, 
u you do not cry out ?” 

u To what end should I do so, my 
son ?” said Catherine. 

u What ! does not this evasion of 
your son appear criminal to you, ap- 
pear menacing, worthy of the heavi- 
est punishment ?” 

u My dear son, liberty is well 
worth a crown, and remember that it 
was I myself who counselled you to 
fl y> when you could so obtain that 
crown.” 

u My mother, he insults me.” 
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. 
u My mother, he braves me.” 
u No, no,” said Catherine, u he 
escapes from you, that is all.” 

u Ah !” said Henr}y u this is your 
way of taking my part, is it ?” 

u What do you mean to say, my 
son ?” 

“ I say that with age, the natural 
affections grow weak. I say — ” 

And he stopped short. 
u VYhat do you say ?” replied Ca- 
therine, with all her wonted coolness. 

u I say that you do not love me as 
you used.” 

u You are mistaken,” said Cathe- 
rine, with increasing coolness, u you 
are my well beloved son, Henry. But 
he of whom you complain, is my son 
likewise.” 

u Ah ! a truce to natural morality, 
Madame,” said Henry furiously, 
u we know how much that is worth.” 
u Ah ! you ought to know it better 
than any one, my son ; for in your 
presence morality has always degene- 
rated into weakness.’’ 

u And as you are engaged in re- 
pentance, I suppose you repent that 
also.” 

u I expected that we should come 
to this, my son,” said Catherine, 
u therefore it is that 1 have kept si- 
lence.” 

u Farewell, Madame, farewell,” 


said Henry, u I now know what I 
have to do, since even my mother has 
no longer any compassion for me ; I 
will find counsellors capable of se- 
conding my resentment, and of en- 
lightening me in this crisis.” 

u Go, my son,” said the Floren- 
tine quietly, u and may the spirit of 
the Lord be with those counsellors, 
for they will have need thereof, to 
relieve you from this embarrassment.” 
And she allowed him to depart 
without a gesture, without saying one 
word to detain him. 

u Adieu, Madame, adieu,” re- 
peated Henry, but when he had al- 
most reached the door, he stopped 
short — 

“ Henry, farewell,” said the 
queen. “ Only one word more. Ido 
not pretend to counsel you, my son ; 
you have no need of me. I know it 
well. But pray your counsellors to 
reflect before they give their advice, 
and to reflect more deeply still, before 
they put their advice into execution.” 
u Oh, yes,” said Henry, laying hold 
of that expression of his mother’s, and 
taking advantage of it to go farther 
yet, u for the circumstances are diffi- 
cult, are they not, Madame ?” 

u Grave indeed,” said Catherine 
slowly, and turning her eyes toward 
heaven as she spoke ; u very grave, 
Henry. ” 

The King, struck by the expression 
of terror which he imagined that he 
could see in the eyes of his mother, 
came back to her side. 

“ Who are they,” he said, u who 
carried him off — can you conjecture, 
Madame, my mother ?” 

Catherine made no reply. 
u For my part,” said Henry, u I 
should say that it was the men of 
Anjou.” 

Catherine smiled one of those keen 
smiles which demonstrated always in 
her a superior intellect, watching its 
opportunity to pounce upon and over- 
throw another inferior mind. 

u The men of Anjou ?” she repeated. 
u You do not think so,” said Hen- 
ry. “ Yet all the world believe it.” 


344 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Catherine again made a slight ges- 
ture with her shoulders. 

“ What, then, Madame, what do 
you mean to say ? Explain yourself, I 
implore you.” 

“To what purpose should I ex- 
plain myself ?” 

“ Your explanation will enlighten 
me.” 

“ Come, come, I am an old, doting 
woman ; my only influence lies in my 
repentance and my prayers.’’ 

“ No. Speak, my mother, speak 
— I listen to you. You are, you will 
ever be, the soul of us all.” 

a Useless. I have only retained 
old ideas of the last century, and the 
only wisdom of the aged is distrust. 
The aged Catherine give advice, in 
her decline, which should avail any- 
thing ! Impossible ! my son, impossi- 
ble !” ^ • 

“ Be it so, then, my mother. De- 
prive me of your aid,” said Henry. 
“ Refuse me your advice, if you will. 
But look you, within an hour, be it 
your advice or no, and I shall know it 
then, I will hang all the Angevins 
whom I shall find in Paris.” 

“ Hang all the Angevins !” said 
Catherine, with that astonishment 
which gfiperior intellects experience, 
when some enormity is mentioned in 
their presence. 

“ Yes ! yes ! hang, massacre, assas- 
sinate, burn. Even now, my friends 
are running through the town, to 
break me the bones of the accursed 
robbers, these brigands, these rebels ! ” 

“ Let them beware of it, the 
wretches,” cried Catherine, carried 
beyond her simulated calmness by the 
seriousness of the situation ; “ they 
will ruin themselves, which matters 
not, but they will ruin you with them- 
selves.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Blind !” murmured Catherine. 
“ Oh ! will kings ever have eyes, only 
not to see?” And she clasped her 
bands together. 

“ Kings are kings only on the condi- 
tion of the wrongs done against them ; 
tor then their vengeance becomes 


justice, and in this case, especially, 
my kingdom will arise to defend me.” 
“Madman! child! idiot!” mur- 
mured the Florentine. 

“ Wherefore ? — How so ?” 

“ Think you such men as Bussy, 
as Antraguet, as Livarot, as Riberac, 
can be hanged, burned, assassinated, 
without blood flowing like a river ?” 

“ What matter how it flow, provid- 
ed they be slaughtered ?” 

a Aye, doubtless ! provided they 
be slaughtered ! Show me them dead, 
and, by Notre-Dame, 1 will tell you 
that you have done well. But, for them 
the standard of rebellion will be rais- 
ed — but, for them the sheathless blade 
will be grasped by hands that would 
have drawn no sword from scabbard 
for a master such as Francis. Now, 
in this case, by your own imprudence, 
they will draw in their own self-de- 
fence, and your kingdom will arise, 
it is true, not to defend, but to over- 
throw you.” 

“ But if I fail of vengeance, I shall 
be said to be afraid, I shall be said to 
recoil !” said Henry. 

u Did any one ever say that I was 
afraid ?” said Catherine, bending her 
brows, and biting her thin lips, red- 
aened with carmine. 

“ Nevertheless, if it were the An- 
gevins, they would deserve punish- 
ment, my mother.” 

“ Yes, if it were they ; but it is not.” 
u Who is it, then, if it be not the 
friends of my brother ?” 

“ It is not the friends of your bro- 
ther, for your brother has no friends.” 
“ Who is it then ?” 

“It is your enemies — or rather 
your enemy.’’ 

“ What enemy ?” 

“ Ah ! my son, you well know that 
you never had but one, as your bro- 
ther Charles never had but one, as I 
myself never had but one — one, the 
same, always, incessantly.” 

a You mean Henry of Navarro 
He is not in Paris.” 

“ Ah ! do you know who is, or who 
is not, in Paris ? Do you know any- 
thing ? Have you eyes, have you 


THE LADY OF MOlYSOREAU. 


345 


ears ? Have you around you men 
who see and hear ? No, you are all 
deaf! no, you are all blind !” 

44 Henry of Navarre !” repeated 
Henry. 

u My son, at every disappointment 
which shall befall you, at every misfor- 
tune which shall befall you, at every 
catastrophe which shall befall you, and 
of which the author is unknown, seek 
not, inquire not, hesitate not, it is 
useless ; cry 4 Henry ! It is Henry of 
Navarre ;’ and rest sure you will 
have spoken truly. Strike against 
him, and rest sure you will have 
stricken justly. Oh! that man! oh! 
that man ! Lo ! you, he is the sword 
which God lias suspended over the 
house of Valois.’’ 

44 You advise me then to counter- 
mand the orders which I gave about 
theAngevins ?” — 

44 And that too on the instant” — 
exclaimed Catherine. 44 Without los- 
ing a minute, without losing a second. 
Hasten, perhaps it is too late already. 
Fly, revoke all your orders ; — go, go, 
or you are lost.” 

And grasping her son by the arm, 
she pushed him toward the door, with 
all the force and energy she possessed. 

. Henry hurried from the Louvre, 
with the intent of rallying his friends. 

But the only one he met with was 
Chicot — Chicot seated on a stone, 
and drawing geographical figures on 
the sand. 

Henry made himself assured that 
the object was really the Gascon, 
who, like Archimedes, seemed little 
disposed to turn round, even though 
Paris should be taken by assault. 

44 Ah, comrade,” exclaimed the 
King, 44 is that the way you defend 
your King?’’ 

u I defend him in my own way, 
and I think that is the right way.” 

44 The right way,” inquired Henry, 
44 the right way, lazy varlet.” 

44 I maintain that it is, and I can 
prove it.” 

44 1 should be glad to hear you do so.” 

44 Nothing easier* In the first 
platfe, we have perpetrated a very 


foolish act, King of mine, a very 
stupid act.” 

44 How ?” 

44 By doing what we have done.” 

44 Ha, ha !” ejaculated Henry, 
struck by the correlativeness of two 
minds of so eminently subtle a charac- 
ter, and which could not have con- 
certed together to arrive at the same 
result. 

44 Yes,” resumed Chicot, 44 your 
friends, by screaming through the 
streets — 4 Down with the Angevins’ — 
and now, that I reflect on it, I am not 
quite certain that the Angevins are 
so much to blame — and your friends, 
I say, by screaming through the city 
— 4 Down with the xingevins,’ simply 
create the little civil war of which 
the Messieurs de Guise are so much 
in want, and look you, Henry, while 
we are talking, either your friends are 
destroyed to a man — which would not, 
I confess, displease me so much, but 
which would distress you — or else 
they have driven the Angevins from 
the city — which will displease you 
much, but which will greatly delight 
sweet my lord of Anjou.” 

44 Sdeatli,” cried the King, 44 do 
you think matters are so far gone ?” 

44 Matters are, perhaps, much worse 
than lam supposing.” 

44 But, all this does not explain 
what you are doing there, seated on 
that stone.” 

44 I am working at something very 
much needed by you and yours, my 
son.” 

44 What is it ?” 

44 I am taking the configuration of 
the provinces, which your brother can 
turn against us, and I am calculat- 
ing the number of men that each 
1 can furnish to the rebel army.” 

44 Chicot, Chicot,” cried the King, 
44 it would seem that I have about me 
only birds of bad omen !” 

44 The owl sings well by night, my 
son, for it sings at the hour that suits 
it best. The sky is dark, now, Har- 
ry — so let me sing what it needs that 
you should hear. Look here !” 

44 Look at what ?” 


316 


DIANA OF MERIDQR, OR, 


44 Look at my geographical map, 
aad judge for yourself. In the first 
place, here is Anjou, looking passably 
like a tartlet ! 1 rank it foremost, 

you see, because it is there your 
brother has taken refuge, hum ! An- 
jou, well managed and ordered — man- 
aged as it will be managed by your 
Grand-Huntsman, Monsoreau, and 
your friend Bussy — Anjou alone can 
furnish us — and when I say us, I 
mean your brother — Anjou can fur- 
nish your brother ten thousand 
fighting men.” 

u Do you think so ?” 

44 At the very least. Now, let us 
pass on to Guyenne. Guyenne — you 
see it here — figured like a calf walk- 
ing on one leg — faith, you must not 
be surprised to find in Guyenne a 
few disaffected subjects ! It is an 
old focus of rebellion — it is only yes- 
terday it was an English possession. 
Guyenne, doubtless, will be delighted 
to take up arms, not against you so 
much as against France. Guyenne 
may be put down for eight thousand 
soldiers. The number is small, but 
they will be tried men — hardy vete- 
rans — rely upon that. Next, on the 
left of .Guyenne, we have Bearn and 
Navarre. See here ! These two di- 
visions which look mightily like an 
ape on the back of an elephant ! 
True, Navarre has been pretty well 
plucked, but with Bearn, there is still 
a population of three or four hundred 
thousand souls. Let us suppose 
Bearn and Navarre to be hard pushed, 
well pushed, well squeezed by Hen- 
riot — they can contribute five per cent, 
of their population to the League — 
which will make sixteen thousand 
men. Let us recapitulate. Ten 
thousand for Anjou.” 

And Chicot went on tracing fig- 
ures on the sand with his rod. — 44 As 
aforesaid, 10,000 

u Eight thousand for Guy- 
enne, S,000 

4 Sixteen thousand for 

Bearn a?id Navarre, 16,000 

44 Total, 34,000.” | 


44 Then, it is your opinion,” said 
Henry, 44 that the King of Navarre 
will form an alliance with my 
brother ?” 

44 Pardieu !” 

44 Then, you think, that he has had 
something to say to his escape ?” 
Chicot looked hard at the King. 

44 Henry,” said he, 44 that idea is 
not your own.” 

44 Why not?” 

44 Because it is too deep for you, my 
son.” 

44 It matters not whose idea it is; 
I am interrogating ; answer. Do you 
think that Henry of Navarre has had 
anything to say to my brother’s es- 
cape ?” 

44 Hey !” said Chicot. 44 1 heard 
in the neighborhood of the Rue de la 
Ferronnerie a certain Ventre Saint - 
Gris — which appears to me, now that 
I think of it, sufficiently conclusive.” 
44 You heard a — Ventre Saint - 
Gris /” cried the King. 

44 Faith, that I did !” replied Chi- 
cot. 44 I had forgotten all about it 
until to-day.” 

44 Then, he was in Paris ?” 

44 Such is my belief.” 

44 Have you ar y other reason for 
believing it ?” 

44 My eyes.” • 

44 You saw Henry of Navarre ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 And you did not let me know 
that my enemy had come to brave me 
in my very capital ?” 

44 A man is a gentleman, or he 
is not,” said Chicot. 

44 Well ?” 

44 If a man be a gentleman, he is 
not a spy — that is all.” 

Henry remained for a moment 
silent, and lost in thought. 

4fc Anjou and Bearn,” he resumed ; 
44 my brother Francis, and my cousin 
Henry. ” 

44 Without counting the three Gui- 
ses, ’’ said Chicot. 

44 What — do you think that they 
will join together ?” 

44 There will, in the first place, be 
thirty-four thousand men,” replied 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


347 


Chicot, counting on his fingers ; C( ten 
thousand frcm Anjou, eight thousand 
from Mayenne, sixteen thousand from 
Bearn, and next, twenty or twenty- 
five thousand men under the order of 
Monsieur de Guise, as Lieutenant 
General of the Royal foices ; In all, 
fifty-nine thousand men. Let us allow 
for gouts, rheumatisms, sciatics and 
other diseases, and say fifty thousand 
men. It will still be a pretty consider- 
able force, my son.” 

u But Henry of Navarre and the 
Duke of Guise are enemies.” 

u Which will fiot prevent them 
frpm uniting against you. Once you 
are out of the way, they will be the 
more ready to exterminate each other. ” 
a You are right, Chicot ; my mo- 
ther’s right ; you are both right. We 
must remain quiet ; help me to rally 
my Suisses.” 

a Your Suisses, is it ? Quelus has 
taken them with him.” 
u My guards ?” 
u They are with Schomberg.” 
a The people of my household ?” 
u They are off with Maugiron. 
u What !” cried Henry, u without 
orders from me ?” 

u And since when do you give or- 
ders, Henry ? If the orders concern- 
ed processions and scourgings, they 
would, to a certainty, proceed from 
you : you are allowed full power over 
your own skin and the skins of others. 
But when war is the question, as a 
matter of state policy — ahem — it con- 
cerns Monsieur Schomberg, Monsieur 
Quelus, Monsieur de Maugiron. As 
for D’Epernon, 1 say nothing, because 
he is hiding himself.” 

u ’Sdeath,’’ cried Henry, u is such 
the state of affairs ?” 

u Permit me to tell you, my son,” 
resumed Chicot, u that it is rather 
late in the day to find out that you 
are onty the seventh or eighth King 
of your kingdom.” 

Henry bit his lips and stamped his 
foot. 

u Hey !” ejaculated Chicot, trying 
to distinguish objects through the 
darkness. 


u Udsbuddikins, the very men ! 
Look, Henry , here come your friends. ” 

. As he spoke, he pointed to two or 
three men on horseback, who were 
hurrying forward, folio a od by seve- 
ral other mounted men, tmd by a 
number of men on foot. 

The whole party was entering the 
Louvre, not perceiving Henry and 
Chicot standing by the meat, and 
partly concealed by the darkness. 

u Schomberg,” cried the King, 
u Schomberg, here !” 

u Ho, there,” said Schomberg — 
u who calls ?” 

u Come on, child — here!’’ 
Schomberg, partly recognizing 
the voice, drew near. 

u Heigh !” said he — u by the Lord, 
it is the King !” 

u Myself. I have been waiting 
your return with great anxiety. What 
have you done ?” 

u What have we done ?” said a 
second horseman, reining up. 

u Ah, is that you, Quelus ? Do 
you come here, too, and take care not 
to go off again as you have done, with- 
out my permission.” 

u There will be no need to do so,” 
said a third, whom the King knew 
to be Maugiron, u since all i3 
over.” 

u All is over ?” repeated the King. 
“ Thank Heaven,” said D’Eper- 
non, suddenly making his appearance, 
from where, no one knew. 

u Hosannah !” cried Chicot, rais- 
ing his hands to heaven. 

u Then., you have killed them ?” 
said the King. 

Adding in another tone : 
u After all, the dead never come 
back !” 

u You have killed them?” said 
Chicot. u Oh, if you have killed 
them, there is no more to be said !” 
u We have not had that trouble,” 
said Schomberff — u the cowards fled 

O 

like a flock of pigeons. We were 
scarcely able to cross swords with 
them !” 

Henry turned pale. 


348 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


44 And with whom did you cross 
ewords ?” 

44 With Antraguet.” 

44 You laid him low at last ?” 

44 On the contrary, he killed a ser- 
vant belonging to Quelus.” 

u Why they must have been pre- 
pared for you ?” asked the King. 

44 Parbleu! I should think so,” 
cried Quelus. 44 There were you 
yelling — 4 Down with the Angevins’ — 
roaring cannons, ringing bells, rat- 
tling all the old iron in Paris, and you 
would expect those honest fellows to 
be more deaf than you are foolish !” 

44 Well, well,” said the King, in a 
hollow voice, 44 this is civil war at last! 5 
Quelus started at the words. 

44 The deuce !” he cried. 44 It 
looks like it.” 

44 Hall ! you are beginning to find 
it out, are you ?’ said Quelus. 44 It is 
so much gained ! Here are Mons. de 
Schomberg and Mons. de Maugiron, 
who have not found it out yet !” 

“ We shall hold ourselves pre- 
pared,” said Scliomberg, u to defend 
his Majesty’s crown and person.” 

44 Hey! odzooks !” said Chicot, 
44 for that we have Monsieur de Clis- 
son, who does not cry aloud as you 
do, and is, perhaps, worth you all 
taken together.” 

44 With all that,” said Quelus — 
44 you who are taking us to task thus, 
Monsieur Chicot — you thought as we 
did two hours ago, or at least if you 
did not think as we did, you cried as 
we did ?” 

44 I ?” said Chicot. 

44 You, yourself. Do you forget 
cutting away at the walls, crying all 
the while 4 Down with the Angevins ?’ ” 
44 But, in my case,” said Chicot, 
it is a different thing. I am a fool, 
and everybody knows it, while every- 
body knows you to be men cf sense.” 
44 Come, gentlemen,” said Henry, 
44 peace ! We shall soon have 
enough of war.” 

44 What does your Majesty com- 
mand ?” said Quelus. 

44 That you apply the same zeal 
and alacrity to calm the people that 


you did to rouse them : that you 
bring back to the Louvre the Suisses, 
the guards and the people of my 
household, and that you close all the 
gates, so that the citizens may ima- 
gine that it was nothing but a drun- 
ken brawl.” 

The young men departed with 
their ears hanging down, conveying 
the king’s orders to the officers who 
accompanied them in their foolish 
enterprise. 

As for Henry, he returned to his 
mother. He found her on the alert, 
but anxious and gloomy, issuing 
orders to her people. 

44 Well,” said she, 44 what has oc- 
curred ?” 

44 Well, mother, everything that 
you yourself foresaw !” 

44 They have escaped ?” 

44 Alas ! yes.” 

44 Hah !” said she, 44 what next ?” 
44 What next ? Nothing, and it 
seems to me that it is quite enough.” 
44 The city ?” 

44 The city is in an uproar, but it 
is not the city that alarms me. I 
have it in my power.” 

44 But the provinces ?” said Cathe- 
rine. 

44 Will rise — will be sure to re- 
volt,” said Henry. 

44 What do you intend to do ?”' 

44 1 only see one thing.” 

44 What is it r” 

44 To fight it out !” 

44 How ?” 

44 I shall give the word to my colo- 
nels and to my guards ; I shall call 
out my militia ; I shall recall my 
army from before La Charite, and 
march on Anjou.” 

44 And Monsieur de Guise ?” 

44 Oh ! Monsieur de Guise, I shall 
neve him arrested, if it be necessary.” 
44 Oh ! indeed. You have gene- 
rally succeeded so well with rigorous 
measures.” 

44 Then, what is to be done ?” 
Catherine bent her head on her 
breast , and reflected for an instant. 

44 None of these things will do, my 
son/’ said she. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


“ Ha !” cried Henry, deeply morti- 
fied, “ it would seem that I am badly 
inspired to-day !” 

“ Nd, but you are perplexed : 
compose yourself, and we will see 
what is to be done.” 

“ Mother, you must advise me ; 
let us do something — anything rather 
than allow this danger to grow upon 
us ?” 

“You saw, my son, that I had 
been giving orders.” 

“What for?” 

“For the departure of an ambas- 
sador.” 

“To be sent to whom ?” 

“To your brother.” 

“ An ambassador to that traitor ? 
Mother, would you humiliate me ?” 

“ This is not a moment to show 
pride,” replied Catherine sternly. 

“ An ambassador to sue for 
peace ?” 

“To purchase it, if necessary.” 

“ For what advantages, Mon 
Dieu /” 

“ Oh ! my son,” said the Floren- 
tine, “if it were only to have it in 
your power, as soon as peace shall be 
made, to hang at your ease those who 
designed war against you. Did you 
not say just now that you would like 
to hold them ?” 

“ I would give four provinces of 
my kingdom to hold them — one for 
each man !” 

“ Well, when we seek an end, we 
must use the means,” resumed Cathe- 
rine, in a voice which penetrated 
the recesses of Henry’s heart, there 
awakening hatred and revenge. 

“ I believe that you are right, mo- 
ther, but whom shall we send ?” 

“ Look round among your friends.” 
“I do not know a man whom I 
would venture to send on such an 
errand.” 

“ Then send a woman.” 

“ A woman, mother ! Is it possible 
that you would consent ?” 

“ My son, I am very old, greatly 
broken down, and perhaps death will 
meet me on my return ; but, neverthe- 
less, I shall make this journey so 


349 

rapidly, that I shall arrive at Angers 
before your brother’s friends and your 
brother himself shall have time to 
measure the extent of their power.” 

“ Oh, mother, best of mothers,” 
cried Henry, overflowing with grati- 
tude, and kissing Catherine’s hands, 
“ you have ever been my support, 
my benefactress, my providence.” 

“ That is to say, I have been 
always Queen of France,” murmured 
Catherine, gazing at Henry tenderly, 
it may be, but certainly with as 
much compassion as tenderness. 


CHAPTER V. 

♦ 

IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT GRATI- 
TUDE WAS ONE OF MONSIEUR DE 

SAINT-LUC’S VIRTUES. 

On the day following that on which 
Monsieur de Monsoreau had exhibited 
at the Duke of Anjou’s table, that 
piteous countenance which had pro- 
cured for him permission to retire 
before the end of the repast, the gen- 
tleman rose early in the morning, and 
went down to the palace-yard. 

His object was to come across the 
groom whom he had already spoken 
with, and, if possible, to extract from 
him some information as to Roland’s 
habits. 

The count was successful. He 
entered a vast barn where forty splen- 
did horses were eating their fill of 
hay and oats levied on the An- 
gevins. 

The count first looked round for 
Roland. Roland was in his place, 
performing wonders among the feed- 
ers. 

His next look was for the groom. 

He found him standing with his 
arms folded, watching, as is cus- 
tomary with good grooms, the greater 
or less degree of avidity with which 
his master’s horses swallowed their 
rations. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


350 


u Oil, friend,” said the count, u is 
it usual for my lord’s horses to re- 
turn to their stable alone ? Are they 
trained to the trick ?” 

u No, Monsieur le Comte,” re- 
plied the groom. u Why does your 
lordship ask me such a question ?” 
u I am referring particularly to 
Roland.” 

u Oh, because he returned home 
alone yesterday. Roland is a very 
knowing horse.” 

O 

u Yes,” said Monsoreau, u so I 
pee. Has the thing ever occurred 
before ?” 

u No, sir, he is generally ridden by 
my lord the duke, who is a first rate 
horseman, and not easily thrown.” 
u Roland did not throw me, my 
good lord,” said the count, nettled 
that any man, though that man were 
nothing but a groom, should think 
that he, the Grand-Huntsman of 
France, should have fallen from the 
horse, u for without pretending to be 
a match for my lord, the Duke of 
Anjou, I am a pretty good rider. 
No, I had fastened him to a tree 
while I entered a house hard by ; on 
my return he was gone. I imagined 
either that he had been stolen, Or 
that some lord, passing by the road, 
had practised a bad joke on me by 
taking him back to his stable. This 
was my reason for questioning you.” 
u He returned alone, as the Major- 
domo had yesterday the honor of in- 
forming Monsieur le Comte.” 
u Strange,” said Monsoreau. 

He remained a moment silent, and 
then changed the conversation. 

“You say that my lord often 
mounts this horse.” 

u He mounted him almost every 
day before his equipages arrived.” 
u Did his Highness return late 
yesterday ?” 

u About an hour before yourself, 
Monsieur le Comte.” 

u What horse did the duke ride ? 
Was it not a dark bay horse, with 
four white feet, and a star on the 
forehead ?” 

“ No, sir,” said the groom. u Yes- 


I terday, his Highness rode Isolia, 
whom you see there.” 

“ Well, then, was there not in the 
prince’s suite a gentleman mounting 
a horse such as I have described ?” 
u I saw none.” 

u So, so !” said Monsoreau, with a 
slight symptom of impatience at mak- 
ing such slow progress in his re- 
searches. u It matters not. Thank 
you. Saddle me Roland.’’ 

“ Does Monsieur wish to ride Ro 
land?” 

a Yes. Have you the prince’s or 
ders to refuse him ?” 

u No, sir : on the contrary, hia 

Highness has ordered me to place all 
the stables at your disposal.” 

There was no way of getting angry 
with a prince so full of polite atten- 
tions. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau motioned 
with his head to the groom, who im- 
mediately set about saddling Roland. 

As soon as this preliminary opera- 
tion was performed, the groom unfas- 
tened Roland from the manger, put 
on the bridle, and led him to the 
count. 

u Listen,” said the latter to him, 
as he took the bridle from his hands, 
u and answer me.” 

u Certainly, sir,’’ said the groom. 
u What are your wages ?” 

“ Twenty crowns a year, sir.’’ 
u Would you be willing to earn, all 
in a lump, ten years of your wages ?” 
u Pardieu /” said the man. “ But, 
how am I to earn them ?” 

“ Find out who rode yesterday a 
dark bay horse with four white feet 
and a star on his forehead.” 

u Oh, sir,” said the groom, u you 
are asking for something very diffi- 
cult ! There are so many lords con- 
stantly calling on his Highness !” 
u Yes, but two hundred crowns is 
a pretty round sum to induce you to 
take some trouble to satisfy me.” 
u That it is, Monsieur le Compte, 
and I do not refuse to do my best to 
earn it — far from it.” 

u Well,” said the count, u your 
good will pleases me. Here are ten 


TITE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


351 


crowns to start with ; so you see that 
your trouble will not be all loss in | 
any event.” 

“ Thank you, gentleman.” 

“ It is well. You will tell the 
prince that I have gone to reconnoi- 
tre the wood for the chase he ordered 
me to prepare.” 

The count had just spoken, when 
the straw rustled behind him under 
the footsteps of a new comer. 

He turned round. 

“ Monsieur de Bussy !” cried the 
count. 

“ Hey, good day, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau,” said Bussy. “ You at 
Angers — what a miracle !” 

“ And you, sir, who were said to 
be sick?” 

“ I am so in point of fact,” said 
Bussy ; “ and my physician has pre- 
scribed for me the most absolute qui- 
et ; accordingly, I have not been out- 
side the city for more than a week. 
Ha, ha, you are going to ride Roland, 
it would seem ! It was I who sold 
him to my lord the duke, and he 
likes him so well that he rides him 
almost every day.” 

Monsoreau changed color. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ and I am not 
surprised, for he is a fine animal.” 

“ Your hand was in luck, when you 
picked him out,” said Bussy. 

“ Oh, our acquaintance does not 
date from to-day,” replied Monso- 
reau. “ I rode him yesterday.” 
u Which is the reason why you* fan- 
cy riding him to-day ?” said Bussy. 
“Yes,” said Monsoreau. 

“ I beg pardon,” resumed Bussy : 
“ You spoke of preparing a chase.” 

“ The prince has expressed a wish 
for a stag hunt.” 

“ The game abounds in the neigh- 
borhood, from what I understand.” 

“ They are quite numerous.” 

“ Where do you purpose harboring 
the animal ?” 

“ Near Meridor.” 

“ Oh, very well !” said Bussy, 
turning pale, in spite of himself. 

“ Will you bear me company ?” 
asked Monsoreau. 

23 


“ No, many thanks,” replied Bue- 
sy. “ I must to bed : I feel my fever 
coming on.” 

“ There, there !” cried a sonorous 
voice from the stable-door. “There 
is Monsieur de Bussy out again with- 
out my permission !” 

“ Le Haudouin !” said Bussy, 
“Now I am sure to be scolded. 
Adieu, count ; I recommend Roland 
to your care.” 

“ Make yourself easy.” 

Bussy went away, and Monsoreau 
jumped into his saddle. 

“ What is the matter,” asked Le 
Haudouin. “ You look so pale that I 
almost think, myself, that you are 
sick.” 

% 

“ Do you know where he is going ?” 
asked Bussy. 

“ No.” 

“ He is going to Meridor.” 

“ Well, what of it ? Did you ex- 
pect him to pass it by ?” 

“ What will happen, Mon Dieu — 
after what occurred yesterday ?” 

“ Madame de Monsoreau will deny 
everything.” 

“ But he saw with his own eyes !” 
“ She will maintain that it was an 
illusion.” 

“ Diana will not venture ” 

“ Oh, Monsieur de Bussy, is it 
possible that you do not know wo- 
men better ?” 

“ Remy, 1 feel very unwell.” 

“ Of course you do. Return home. 
I prescribed for you this morning’'' — 
“ What ?” 

“ A stewed pullet and crab soup ” 
“ Oh, I am not hungry.” 

“ All the more reason for my pre- 
scribing something for you to eat.” 

“ Remy, I have a presentiment that 
Monsoreau, the brute, is going to 
enact something dreadful at Meridor. 
Indeed, I ought to have accepted his 
offer, when he proposed that I should 
bear him company.” 

“ What for?” 

“ To stand by Diana.” 

“ Madame Diana can stand by 
herself. I have told you so already, 
and I now repeat it. And, as we 


552 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


must do tlie same tiling for ourselves, I 
come with me, I pray you. Be- 
sides, you must not be seen out of 
your room. Why did you leave it, 
contrary to my direction ?” 

u I felt too uneasy : I could not 
help it.” 

Remy shrugged his shoulders, led 
away Bussy, and placed him with 
closed doors, before a good table; 
while Monsieur de Monsoreau was 
1 caving Angers by the same gate as 
the preceding day. 

The count had his reasons for again 
taking Roland. He wanted to make 
himself assured whether it was by 
chance or from habit that the animal, 
whose intelligence was in everybody’s 
mouth, had led him to the park-wall. 
Accordingly, on leaving the palace, 
he let the bridle fall on his neck. 

Roland did not fail in what his ri- 
der expected. As soon as he was out- 
side of the gate, he took to the left : 
Monsieur de Monsoreau let him have 
his way. He next turned to the 
right, and again Monsieur de Monso- 
reau let him have his way. 

Both were soon in the charming 

o 

flowery lane, then in the coppice-wood, 
and next among the forest trees. 
Like the preceding day, as they drew 
near to Meridor, Roland’s pace quick- 
ened. Finally, his trot changed into 
a gallop, and in forty minutes Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau found himself op- 
posite the wall, in the same place as 
before. 

Only, the place was solitary and 
deserted ; no horse was heard to 
neigh ; none was near, fastened or 
loose. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau alighted ; 

O 7 

but this time, not to run the chance 
of returning on foot, he slipped the 
bridle round his arm, and began to 
scale the wall. 

All was silent within as without 
the park. The long alleys lay in end- 
less lines before him, and a few roe- 
bucks were the only symptoms of ani- 
mated nature he could discern over 
the wide expanse of the meadows. 

The count judged that it would be 


time lost to watch people who were 
warned, and who, doubtless, alarmed 
by his appearance on the preceding 
day, had either suspended their inter- 
views, or selected another place of 
meeting. Accordingly, having re- 
mounted his horse, he struck through 
a narrow lane, and after a quarter of 
an hour’s ride, during which he had 
been obliged to hold Roland back, he 
brought up at the grating. 

The baron was amusing himself 
with whipping his dogs, to keep them 
in breath, when the count reached the 
draw-bridge. 

Diana, seated under a magnificent 
sycamore, was reading Marot’s poems. 
Gertrude, her faithful attendant, 
was embroidering by her side. 

The Count, after saluting the baron, 
perceived the two women. He alight- 
ed and approached them. 

Diana rose, advanced three paces 
toward the count, and gravely curt- 
seyed. 

u How composed, or rather, how 
deceitful !” murmured the count. 
u What a storm I shall presently 
raise on the bosom of those tranquil 
waters !’’ 

A servant came up : the Grand- 
Huntsman threw him his horse’s bri- 
dle, and then turning to Diana, 

u Madame,” said he, u I pray you to 
favor me with a moment’s conversa- 
tion.” 

u Willingly, sir,” was Diana’s an- 
swer. 

u Do you intend to honor us with 
your company at the castle, Monsieur 
le Comte r” asked the baron. 

u Yes, sir — at least, until to-mor- 
row.” 

The baron retired to provide for his 
son-in-law’s reception, according to 
the laws of hospitality. 

Monsieur pointed to the chair from 
which Diana had risen, and seating 
himself on Gertrude’s, he fixed on his 
wife a look w T hich would have intimi- 
dated the most resolute of men 

u Who was with you, Madame, in 
the park, yesterday evening 

Diana’s eye was clear, and her 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


353 


countenance unruffled as she looked 
up at her husband. 

“ At what o’clock, sir ?” she asked, 
in a voice which she sufficiently con- 
trolled to divest of all emotion. 

“ At six o’clock.” 

“Where?” 

“ Close by the old coppice-wood.” 

“ It must have been one of m} r 
friends who was walking in that di- 
rection. Certainly, it was not I.” 

“ It was you, Madame,” affirmed 
Monsoreau. 

“ What do you know about it, 
sir ?” said Diana. 

Monsoreau was stupified, and had 
not a word to answer : but anger soon 
loosened his tongue. 

“ That man’s name — let me hear 
it!” 


“ What man ?” 

“ The name of the man who was 
with you.” 

“ I know not whom you mean : I 
was not walking.” 

“ It was you, I tell you,” said Mon- 
SOre%u, stamping his foot. 

You are mistaken, sir,” said Di- 
ana, coldly. 

“How can you dare deny what I 
myself saw ?” 

“ Ha, you saw, sir !” 

“ Yes, Madame, I saw. How, then, 
can you dare deny that I saw you, 
since there is not another lady be- 
sides yourself at Meridor. 

“Another mistake, sir, for Joan de 
Brissac is here.’’ 

“ Madame de Saint-Luc ?” 

“Yes, my friend, Madame de Saint- 
Luc.” 

“ And Monsieur de Saint-Luc.” 

“ He never leaves his wife’s side, 
you know yourself. Their’s was a 
love match ! It was Monsieur and 
Madame de Saint-Luc you saw.” 

“ It was not Monsieur de Saint- 
Luc, nor was it Madame de Saint- 
Luc. It was you, whom I recognized 
perfectly, with a man whom I did not 
recognize, but whom I will know, you 
may rely upon it.” 

“ You persist then in saying that it 
was I, sir.” 


“ I tell you that I recognized you, 
I tell you that I even heard the cry 
that escaped from you.” 

“ When you recover your senses, 
sir,’’ said Diana, “ I will consent to 
listen to you ; for the present, I had 
better leave you to yourself.” 

“ No, Madame,” said Monsoreau, 
holding her back by the arm, “ you 
shall remain where you are.” 

“ There come Monsieur and Ma- 
dame de Saint-Luc, sir,” said Diana, 
“ I hope that you will lay some re- 
straint on yourself in their presence.” 

Monsieur and Madame de Saint- 
Luc were just emerging from a side- 
walk. The dinner-bell was ringing, 
and they were hastening to greet their 
host. 

Both recognized the count, as soon 
as they came in sight, and both di- 
vined that their presence would be a 
relief to Diana. 

Madame de Saint-Luc formally 
curtseyed to Monsieur de Monsoreau, 
while Saint-Luc cordially tendered 
him his hand. All three exchanged 
a few compliments, and then Saint- 
Luc, bestowing his wife on Monso- 
reau’s arm, took Diana under his own 
charge. 

In this way, they proceeded toward 
the castle. 

Nine o’clock was the dinner hour 
at the manor of Meridor. It was an 
old custom, dating back from the age 
of Louis XII., of which the Baron of 
Meridor was a punctilious observer. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau found him- 
self placed between Sa|nt-Luc and 
his wife, while Diana, separated from 
her husband by a clever contrivance 
of her friend’s, was seated between 
Saint-Luc and the baron. 

Conversation was general ; it turned 
naturally on the arrival of the King’s 
brother at Angers, and on the sensa- 
tion the event would create through- 
out the province. 

Monsoreau would have been well 
pleased to have discoursed of other 
matters, but he had stubborn materi- 
als to deal with. Every effort of his 
failed. 


354 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Not that Saint-Luc made the 
slightest difficulty about answering 
him ; on the contrary, he quizzed the 
infuriated husband with admirable 
humor, while Diana, enabled by his 
voluble babble to maintain silence, 
thanked him with her eyes. 

u This Saint-Luc is a great fool, 
and chatters like a magpie,” said 
Monsoreau to himself, u he is the 
very man for my purpose, and I am 
sure to get the secret out of him by 
one means or another.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau did not 
know Saint-Luc, who only made his 
appearance at court just as the for- 
mer was leaving it. 

With the conviction that he could 
use him at his leisure, he replied to 
Saint-Luc in such a manner, as to in- 
crease Diana’s feeling of security, and 
indeed to put all parties at their ease. 

Besides, Saint-Luc kept making 
signs with his eyes to Diana, and his 
signs signified, 

u Be not alarmed, Madame, I am 
forming a plan for your advantage.” 
We shall see, in the following chap- 
ter, what was Monsieur de Saint- 
Luc’s plan 


CHAPTER VI. 

MONSIEUR DE SAINT-LUC’s PLAN. 

The repast finished, Monsoreau took 
his new friend by the arm, and led 
him out to walk. 

u You must know,” said he, “ that 
I am truly rejoiced to find you here. 
I have been dreading by anticipation, 
the solitude of this place.” 

u You are surely not in earnest,” 
said Saint-Luc. u Have you not 
your wife here ? As for me, with 
such a companion, the solitude of a 
desert would not be enough for me.” 
u I do not say the contrary,” re- 
sumed Monsoreau, biting his lips. 
“ Nevertheless — ” 


u Nevertheless, what ?” 
u Nevertheless, I am rejoiced to 
meet you here.” 

u You are really very polite, sir,” 
said Saint-Luc, picking his teeth with 
a small gold instrument, “for, it 
would be difficult for me to believe 
that you could ever weary of such a 
wife or so delightful a country.” 
u Bah !” said Monsoreau,” I have 
passed half of my life in the woods.” 
u The greater reason for not weary- 
ing of them,” said Saint-Luc. “ It 
seems to me that the more one lives 
in the woods, the more one likes 
them. See, what a lovely park ! I 
know that I shall regret exceedingly 
being obliged to leave it, and unfor- 
tunately, I am afraid that it will be. 
soon.” 

u Why need you leave it ?” 

“ Heigh, sir, man is not the master 
of his own destiny ! He is like the 
leaf of the tree, loosened from ita 
hold by the wind, and sent journey- 
ing over valley and plain. He never 
knows where he is going. You are 
a happy man !” 
u Why happy ?” 

u Because you can remain under its 
protecting umbrage.” 

u Oh,” said Monsoreau, u it is 
probable that I shall not remain hero 
long.” 

u Bah, what do you mean ? I 
think that you must be mistaken.” 
u No,” said Monsoreau, “ oh, no ! 
I am not so ardent an admirer of 
nature as you are, and I mistrust this 
park which seems beautiful in your 
eyes.” 

u What do you say?” exclaimed 
Saint-Luc. 

u Yes, I mistrust,” repeated Mon- 
soreau. 

u You mistrust this park, you say ! 
Pray, why so ?” 

u Because it does not appear to 
me to be safe.” 

u Not safe, indeed !” saij. Saint- 
Luc, with an air of astonishment. 
u Oh, I understand. Because it is so 
lonesome.” 

r “ No ! not exactly for that reason 


/ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


355 


I presume that you see company at 
Meridor.” 

44 Faith, no,” said Saint-Luc, with 
perfect ingenuousness of manner — 
4 not a soul.” 

44 Ah ! indeed !” 

44 It is as I have the honor of tell- 
ing you.” 

44 What ! no visits occasionally ?” 
44 Not since I have been here at 
least.” 

44 Does not a stray gentleman from 
the court which is now at Angers, oc- 
casionally drop in here ?” 

44 Not one.” 

44 Impossible !” 

44 Why impossible.” 

44 Oh ! sir, you are slandering the 
gentlemen of Anjou.” 

44 I know not if I slander them, 
but the deuce take me if I have seen 
the feather of one of them !” 

44 Then, I am mistaken.” 

44 Y^es, quite mistaken. Let us 
return to what you were saying at 
first — that the park was not safe. 
Are there bears in it ?” 

44 Oh ! no.” 

44 Wolves ?” 

44 No.” 

44 Robbers ?” 

44 Perhaps. Tell me, my dear sir— 
it struck me that Madame de Saint- 
Luc was particularly good looking ?” 
44 Rather.” 

44 Does she often walk in the 
park ?” 

44 Often : she is like me — she wor- 
ships the country But, why do you 
ask ?” 

44 For no particular reason. When 
she walks do you accompany her ?” 

44 Always ?” 

44 Almost always ?” 

44 What the deuce are you driving 
at ?” 

44 Eh, Mon Dieu ! at nothing, my 
dear Monsieur de Saint -Luc. Or at 
least very nearly so.” 

44 Explain.” 

44 The fact is I have been told” — 
44 What have you been told ? 
Speak.” 

44 You will not be angry ?” 


44 I am never angry.” 

44 Besides it is usual for husbands 
to communicate these things to each 
other. The fact is, then, I have been 
told that a man has been seen prowl- 
ing about the park.” 

44 A man ?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 Who comes to see my wife ?” 

44 Oh ! I do not say that.” 

44 You would be perfectly wrong 
not to say it, my dear Mons. de 
Monsoreau : it is very interesting. 
Pray, tell me who has seen this man. 
44 There is no need.” 

44 Tell me. We are conversing, 
are we not ? Well, we may as well 
converse about the man as anything 
else. And so you say that he comes 
to see Madame de Saint-Luc ? only 
think of that !” 

44 Listen : to speak frankly I do 
not think he comes to see Madame 
de Saint-Luc.” 

44 To see whom, then ?” 

44 I fear, on the contrary, that it is 
to see Diana.” 

44 Good — that pleases me better !” 
44 HoW — that pleases you better ?” 
44 Of course. You know how sel- 
fish husbands are. Every man for 
himself — God for us all !” 

44 The devil, rather !” 

44 And so you think that a man 
has been here ?” 

44 I have good reason for believing 
it — I saw him.” 

44 You saw a man in the park ?” 
u ” 

44 Alone ?” 

44 With Madame de Monsoreau.” 

44 When ?” 

44 Yesterday.’' 

44 Whereabout ?” 

44 Here to the left — here.” * 

And as Monsoreau had directed his 
own and Saint-Luc’s steps toward the 
old coppice-wood, he was able to 
point out the spot to his companion. 

44 Ha !” said Saint-Luc, 44 this 
wall is really in a bad state ! .1 must 
inform the baron that his enclosures 
are getting dilapidated.” 

44 Whom would you suspect ?” 


356 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“I ?” 

« Yes.” 
u Of what ?” 

u Of scaling the wall to get into 
the park to see my wife.” 

Saint-Luc seemed to refleot pro- 
foundly, while Mons. de Monsoreau 
awaited the result with painful 
anxiety. 

“ Well !” said he. 
a Faith,” said Saint-Luc, u I can 
guess at no one except” — 
u Except — except !” 
u Except — yourself!” said Saint- 
Luc, looking up. 

u Are you joking, my dear Mons. 
de Saint-Luc ?” said the Count petri- 
fied. 

u Faith ! no. When I was mar- 
ried, I used to do such things myself. 
Why should not you ?” 

u Come, you do not wish to answer 
me ; confess that such is the fact, 
my dear sir — hut fear nothing — I can 
bear it. Come, think again — I so- 
licit this favor at your hands.” 
Saint-Luc scratched his ear. 
u I can still only guess at your- 
self,” said he. 

u A truce with raillery, sir, take 
the thing seriously, for it is of impor- 
tance, I tell you.” 
u You think so.” 
u I tell you that I know it is.” 
u Well ! that puts another face on 
the matter. Do you know how the 
man comes ?” 

u By stealth, Parbleu /” 

Often ?” 

u I should say so : his foot-prints 
can be traced on the soft stone of the 
wall. Look here !” 
u So thfe/ can.” 

u Have you never noticed anything 
yourself ?” 

u Oh,” said Saint-Luc, u I have 
had my suspicions.” 

u Ha ! you see !” said Monsoreau, 
breathing hard. u And then ?” 
u And then, I laid them aside, for 
I thought it was you.” 

u But, when I tell you that it was 
not ?” 

“ I believe you, my d^ar sir.” 


u You believe me ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Well, what then ?” 
u It must have been some one 

else?” 

The Grand-Huntsman’s eye was 
almost threatening, as he looked at 
Saint-Luc, who, on his part, displayed 
the greatest indifference. 

u Ha !” ejaculated Monsoreau in 
an angry voice. The young noble 
looked up. 

u I have another idea,” said Saint- 
Luc. 

u Let us have it.” 
u Suppose it were” — 
u Suppose it were?” 
u But no.” 

“ No ?” 

u But suppose it were” — 
u Go on.” 

u Suppose it were my lord the 
Duke of Anjou.” 

u I thought of him myself,” said 
Monsoreau, u but I have inquired. 
It cannot have been the duke.” 
u Eh, eh, the duke is very artful.” 
u Yes, but he is not the man.” 
u You keep repeating that he is not 
the man,” said Saint-Luc. u You, 
therefore, would have me keep repeat- 
ing; that he is.” 

O 

“ Why, as you are an inmate of 
the castle, you must know” — 
u Stop,” cried Saint-Luc. 
u Have you hit it ?” 
u I have another idea. If it was 
neither you nor the duke, it must 
have been myself.” 

“ You ?” 
a Why not ?” 

u Would you be scaling the walls, 
when you can enter by the gate ?” 
u Oh, Mon Dieu ! I am such a 
I whimsical mortal,” said Saint-Luc. 
u Would youhave made off as soon 
as you saw me appear at the top of 
the wall ?” 

u Faith, less than that would have 
; made me run.” 

a Then you must have been doing 
something wrong,” said Monsoreau, 
who began to be no longer able to 
; control his irritation. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


357 


u I would not say that I was not.” 
u To be brief, you are mocking 
me,” cried Monsoreau, turning pale, 
u and have been doing so for the last 
quarter of an hour.” 

u You are mistaken, sir,” said 
Saint-Luc, pulling out his watch, and 
looking Monsoreau steadfastly in the 
face, u 1 have been doing so for the 
last twenty minutes !” 

u You are insulting, sir,” said 
Monsoreau. 

u Do you imagine that you are not 
insulting me with your prying ques- 
tions ?” 

u Ha, I see plainly enough, now.” 
u No wonder — at ten o’clock in 
the morning. And pray, what did 
you see?” 

u I see that you have a secret un- 
derstanding with the traitor, the 
coward, whom I came near killing 
yesterday.” 

u Pardieu /” said Saint-Luc, u he 
is my friend.” 

u Then I shall kill you in his 
stead.” 

u Bah, on your own ground with- 
out notice !” 

u Do you think that I will stand 
upon any ceremony with such a mis- 
creant as you are ?” cried the exaspe- 
rated Monsoreau. 

u Ah, Monsieur de Monsoreau,” 
rejoined Saint-Luc. u Where are 
your good manners ? Have you lost 
them by keeping company with wild 
beasts ? Fie !” 

u Will you not see that I am fu- 
rious ?” yelled Monsoreau, placing 
himself in front of Saint-Luc, with 
his arms folded, and his countenance 
discomposed by the despair which 
was gnawing at his heart. 

u Zounds, man, but I do see it ! 
And to tell you the truth, your fury 
does not become you in the least. 
You are just now a frightful object, 
my dear Monsieur de Monsoreau.” 
Monsoreau, quite beside himself, 
put his hand on his sword. 

u Ha, mark that, you are forcing 
this quarrel on me. I appeal to 
yourself if I am not perfectly calm.” | 


u Yes, my spark, yes, contemptible 
minion, I spit upon thee.” 

u Have the kindness to step to the 
other side of the wall, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, we shall there be on 
neutral ground.” 

u What matters it to me?” cried 
Monsoreau. 

u It matters to me,” said Saint- 
Luc. u I would not kill you on your 
own ground.” 

u Come on !” said Monsoreau, 
hastening through the breach. 

u Look out — gently, count. There 
is a loose stone, it must have been 
shaken not a little. Take care, and 
do not hurt yourself, it would give 
me great pain.” 

With these words, Saint-Luc set 
about following Monsoreau. 

u Come, come on !” cried the lat- 
ter, drawing. 

u Pretty well for a man on a visit 
to the country for his amusement,” 
said Saint-Luc, speaking to himself. 
u It must be admitted that I am 
amusing myself.” 

With his last word, he alighted on 
the other side of the wall. 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOW MONSIEUR DE SAINT-LUC TAUGHT 
MONSIEUR DE MONSOREAU THE HIT 
THAT THE KING HAD TAUGHT HIM 

Monsieur de Monsoreau was wait- 
ing for Saint-Luc, sword in hand, 
and stamping furiously with his foot. 
u Are you ready ?” he cried. 
u Faith,” said Saint-Luc, u you 
have not chosen the worst place ! 
Your back to the sun — no ceremony, 
as you said !” 

Monsieur made a quarter of con 
version. 

u A little improvement,” said 
Saint-Luc. u I can at least see what 
I am about.” 


358 


DIANA OF MERIDOR j OR, 


u Spare me not,” said Monsoreau, 
u for I shall not spare you.” 

u So then,” said Saint-Luc, u you 
really want to kill me.” 

u Want to kill you ? That I do.” 
u Man proposes and God disposes,” 
said Saint-Luc, drawing his sword. 
u You say” — 

u I say — look well at that plot of 
poppies and dandelions.” 

“ What of it ?” 

“ Why, I say that I intend that 
you shall lie there.” 

And he put himself on guard, 
laughing the while. 

Monsoreau fell to with a species of 
ra^e, and laid about him with asto- 
nishing agility, hut in Saint-Luc he 
found his match. 

u Pardieu! Monsieur de Monso- 
reau,” said the latter, as hg played 
with his enemy’s sword, u you are not 
a had hand at the game, and any 
other man, beside Bussy and myself, 
would have been killed by your last 
disengagement.” 

Monsoreau, when he saw the sort 
of man he had to deal with, turned pale. 

u You are perhaps surprised,” con- 
tinued Saint-Luc, u to find that I can 
handle my weapon so well ; but, the 
fact is, that the King, who likes me 
well, as you know, has been kind 
enough to give me a few lessons, and 
has taught me, among other things, 
a certain hit which I shall have the 
pleasure of teaching you presently. 
I tell you this much, because, if I 
should happen to kill you, you will 
have the satisfaction of knowing that 
you are killed by a hit taught by the 
King, which will be very flattering to 
you, you know.” 

u You are exceedingly witty, sir,” 
said the exasperated Monsoreau, 
breaking, and aiming a straight blow 
which would have cut through a wall. 

u Oh, sir, I do my best to express 
myself in suitable terms,” was Saint- 
Luc’s modest reply, as he threw him- 
self on one side, and compelled his 
adversary, by this movement, to make 
a demi-volt which brought the sun 
full in his face 


u Ha, ha!” resumed Saint-Luc, 
u you are now just where I wanted to 
see you, and you shall presently be 
where I wanted to put you. How do 
you like that — ahem ? It was quite 
satisfactory to me — quite so, I can 
assure you. I see that I am not at 
all rusty. A moment ago, there were 
only fifty chances out of a hundred in 
favor of your being killed — there are 
now ninety-nine.” 

And, with a degree of activity, 
vigor and energy, wholly unexpected 
by Monsoreau, and which no one 
would have expected so effeminate a 
youth to display, Saint-Luc aimed 
five passes in succession at the grand- 
huntsman. The latter parried, al- 
though sadly bewildered by the storm, 
mingled as it was with bright flashes 
and the whistling of the bright blade 
as it cut through the air. The sixth 
was a prime pass, compounded of a 
double feint, a parade and a thrust, 
the first half of which he was pre- 
vented from seeing by the sun, and 
the second half of which he could not 
see, inasmuch as Saint-Luc’s sword 
was buried in his breast. 

Monsoreau remained for a moment 
erect, but, like an uprooted oak, wait- 
ing the breath of wind which is to 
decide on which side it shall fall. 

u Now, sir,” said Saint-Luc, u the 
hundred chances are all on one side ; 
and, mark me, you will fall precisely 
on the spot I indicated.” 

Strength was rapidly departing 
from the wounded man ; his hands 
opened and his sight became dimmed, 
his knees gave way, and he fell, 
streaming with blood, on the poppy- 
bed. 

Saint-Luc quietly wiped his sword, 
and watched the gradation of changes 
which, little by little, transforms the 
features of a dying man into the mask 
of a corpse. 

u Ah, you have killed me, sir !” 
said Monsoreau. 

U 1 tried to do so,” said Saint-Luc, 
u but now that I see you lying there, 
at the point of death, the + ake 

me, if I am not sorry for \ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


359 


done . You are now sacred in my 
eyes, sir. You are dreadfully given 
to jealousy, but you are a brave man.” 

And quite satisfied with this fune- 
ral oration, Saint-Luc knelt down by 
Monsoreau ’s side, and added : 

“ Have you a dying declaration to 
make ? On the honor of a gentle- 
man, sir, your last wishes shall be 
attended to. I know myself that 
wounded men are generally thirsty. 
Do you thirst ? Do you wish for 
water ?” 

Monsoreau made no answer. He 
had turned his face to the ground, 
was biting the grass and floundering 
in his blood. 

u Poor fellow!” said Saint-Luc, 
rising to his feet. “ Oh, friendship, 
friendship, thou art truly an exacting 
divinity !” 

Monsoreau opened his eyes heavily, 
tried to raise his head, and fell back, 
uttering a deep groan. 

“ There is no help for it — he is 
dead !” said Saint-Luc. “ Let me 
think no more about him — and yet I 
cannot help reflecting that I have 
killed a man ! Really, I have not 
lost my time in the country.” 

Then, bestriding the wall, he took 
his course across the park, and 
reached the castle. 

The first person he perceived was 
Diana ; she was conversing with her 
friend. 

“ How well black will become her,” 
said Saint-Luc. 

He hastened up to the charming 
group formed by the two women. 

“ Pardon me, dear lady,” said he 
to Diana, “ but I want to sav two 
words to Madame de Saint-Luc.” 

“ Take her, my dear sir, take her,” 
replied Diana. “ I will go and join 
my father in his library ; when you 
have done, you will find me there.” 

u You may expect me,” said Joan. 

Diana retired, saluting them with 
her hand and with a smile. 

The husband and wife were left 
alone. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked Joan, 


with one of her pleasantest expres- 
sions of countenance ; “ you look out 
of sorts, dear husband.” 

u 1 am so — I am so,” replied Saint- 
Luc. 

“ What has happened ?” 

“Eh, mon Dieu ! an accident !” 

“ To yourself r” asked Joan alarmed 
“Not exactly to myself, but to a 
person who was standing close by 
me.” 

“ To what person ?” 

“ To the person with whom I was 
walking ” 

“To Monsieur de Monsoreau.” 

“ Alas ! yes — poor man !” 

“ What has happened to him ?” 

“ I believe that he is dead.” 

“ Dead,” cried Joan, with an agi- 
tation natural to conceive — “ dead !” 
“ Just so.” 

“ He who was here a moment since, 
speaking, looking” — 

“ You have just hit upon the cause 
of his death — he has looked too much, 
and especially he has spoken too 
much.” 

“ My dear Saint-Luc,” said the 
young wife, taking her husband’s 
hand in her’s. 

“ What ?” 

“You are hiding something from 
me.” 

“ Nothing, I protest — not even the 
place where he died.” 

“ Where did he die ?” 

“ Below there, behind the wall— 
at the precise spot where our friend 
Bussy has been in the habit of tying 
up his horse.’’ 

“ It was you killed him, Saint- 
Luc.” 

“ Parbleu , who else could have 
done the deed ? We were together ; 
1 come back alive and tell you that 
he is dead. It is not difficult to guess 
which of the two killed the other.” 

“ Saint-Luc, you are an unfortu- 
nate man.” 

“ My dear Joan,’ 1 said Saint-Luc, 
“ he defied me — insulted me — he was 
the first to draw his sword.” 

“ Horrible — horrible— poor man !’’ 


\ 


/ 


330 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


“ I was sure of it,” said Saint- 
Luc — “ before a week is over, people 
will be saying Saint-Monsoreau.” 

“ But, you cannot remain here,” 
cried Joan : “ you cannot remain un- 
der the roof of the man you have 
lilled.” 

“ Precisely what I thought myself, 
and for that reason I have hastened 
hither to request you, dear Joan, to 
prepare to depart.” 

“ You are not wounded, I hope.” 
“Well asked, and though rather 
late, your question makes us friends 
again. No : I am not even scratch- 
ed.” 

“ Then let us be off.” 

“ As soon as possible, for the acci- 
dent may be knoVn at any moment.” 
“ What accident r” cried Madame 
de Saint-Luc, her mind, manifestly, 
far away from the subject. 

“ Ha !” ejaculated Saint-Luc. 

“ Only think,” said Joan — “ Ma- 
dame de Monsoreau is a widow !” 
u I was just saying the same thing 
to myself.” 

“ After you killed lim ?” 

“ No ; before.” 

u Well, while I am communicating 
this event” — 

u Do it gradually, dear Joan.” 

“ Naughty man ! While I am 
communicating this event to her, do 
you saddle our horses yourself, as 
though we were going to take a ride.” 
u An excellent idea. You will do 
well, dear Joan, to have many such ; 
for, really, my head is beginning to 
get confused.” 

“ But, whither shall we go ?” 

“ To Paris ” 

“ To Paris — and the King?’’ 
u The King will have forgotten 
everything. So many things have 
occurred since be has seen me ! Be- 
side, should there be war, as is pro- 
bable, my place is under his banner.” 
u It is well ; let us start, then, for 
Paris.” 

u Yes, only let me have a pen and 
ink first.” 

“To write to whom r” 

“ToBussy. You will agree with me 


there. I cannot leave Anjou without 
letting him know why I leave it.” 

“ Of course not. You will find 
writing materials in my room.” 
.Saint-Luc hastened up stairs, and 
with a hand, which, in .spite of him- 
self, shook a little, traced the follow- 
ing lines : 

“ My dear friend : 

“ Common fame will soon inform 
you of the accident that has befallen 
Monsieur de Monsoreau. We were 
discussing together, near the old cop- 
pice wood, the causes and effects of 
the dilapidation of park walls, and 
the impropriety of horses travelling 
alone. In the heat of the discussion, 
Monsieur de Monsoreau fell back on a 
bed of poppies and dandelions, and 
that so awkwardly, that he killed 
himself on the spot. 

“ Your devoted friend, 

“ Saint-Luc. 

“ P. S. As at first sight, this 
event may strike you as improbable, I 
may as well mention that when it oc- 
curred, we were both sword in hand. 

“ I am on the point of starting for 
Paris, to make my court to the King, 
Anjou not appearing to me, under 
the circumstances, to be a safe place 
for me.” 

Ten minutes afterward, one of the 
baron’s retainers was on the road to 
Angers with the preceding letter, 
while Monsieur and Madame de 
Saint-Luc were departing through a 
postern, opening on a cross road, 
leaving Diana in tears, and very much 
embarrassed to know how she should 
proceed to relate the sad news to the 
baron. 

She had turned her head aside 
when Saint-Luc passed. 

“ Serve your friends,” said the 
latter to his wife. “ A sad world — 1 
am the only being in it, possessing u 
grateful heart !” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


3G1 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN HOW THE 

QUEEN-MOTHER MADE HER ENTRY 

INTO THE GOOD TOWN OF ANJOU. 

While Monsieur de Monsoreau was 
being laid low by Saint-Luc’s sword, 
a loud flourish of four trumpets was 
being sounded at the gates of An- 
gers. It will be recollected that these 
gates were kept strictly closed. 

The guard being called out, a stan- 
dard was hoisted, and answer was 
made with a similar flourish. 

Catherine of Medicis was preparing 
to make her entry into Angers with 
an imposing retinue. It may not be 
questioned but that the Angevin 
trumpets discoursed excellent music, 
but they certainly did not possess the 
virtue attributed to those which caus- 
ed the walls of Jericho to fall down. 
The gates of Angers would not open. 

Bussy, it is true, had been notified, 
and Bussy had risen from his bed, 
and Bussy had waited on the prince ; 
whereupon, be it said, the prince had 
betaken himself to his bed. 

Catherine leaned out of her litter, 
to show herself to the advanced guard, 
hoping that the majesty of her royal 
countenance would have more effect 
than the sound of trumpets. The 
train-bands of Angers saw the queen, 
and courteously saluted her ; but the 
gates remained closed. 

The queen sent a gentleman to the 
barriers. He was received with abun- 
dant politeness, but when he demand- 
ed admittance for the queen-mother, 
and insisted that her Majesty should 
be received with all the honors, he 
was told, that Angers was a fortified 
town, and that its gates could not be 
opened without certain indispensable 
formalities. 

The gentleman returned in great 
mortification to his mistress, and then 
Catherine, with a bitter sense of its 
meaning, gave utterance to the ex- 
pression subsequently rendered cele- 
brated by Louis XIV., but modified 


by him agreeably to the proportions 
the royal authority had attained : 
u I am made to wait!” she mur- 
mured, while her gentlemen were 
boiling over with indignation. 

At last Bussy, after expending half 
an hour in discussing- with the duke 

O 

and in inventing a hundred state rea- 
sons, the one more peremptory than 
the other — Bussy received his orders. 
Causing his horse to be saddled with 
an excess of accoutrements, and select- 
ing five gentlemen, particularly disa- 
greeable to her Majesty, he placed 
himself at their head, and proceeded 
in grave array, to greet the Queen. 

Catherine was beginning to be 
weary, not of waiting, but of plan- 
ning revenge against the people who 
were insulting her. 

vShe recalled to mind the Arabian 
tale, in which it is related that a 
rebel genius, imprisoned in a brass 
vase, promised to enrich whomsoever 
should deliver him before the expira- 
tion of the first ten centuries of his 
captivity, and then, furious at his de- 
tention, swears to be the death of the 
unhappy wight who should break the 
lid of his prison. 

Catherine had reached the latter 
state of mind. At first, she purposed 
showing great favor to such gentle- 
men as might be the first to greet her. 
Next, she vowed to overwhelm with 
her anger the first man of the garri- 
son she should see. 

Bussy appeared in full armor at 
the barrier, gazing vaguely about him, 
like a night sentry, listening rather 
than seeing. 

u Who goes there ?” he cried. 
Catherine expected genuflexions at 
the very least : her gentleman in wait- 
ing looked at her for orders. 

u Go \ " said she — “ go up to the 
barrier : they are calling — c Who goes 
there ?’ — Do you make answer, sir : it 
is a matter of form.” 

The gentleman went c^se up to ti a 
spikes of the portcullis. 

u Her Majesty, the Queen-motnei , 
on a visit to the good town of Angers ” 


362 


DIANA OF MERITOR • OR 


u Very good, sir,” replied Bussy : 
u have the goodness to turn to the 
left : at about eighty yards from 

where you stand, you will find the 
postern !” 

u The postern,” exclaimed the 
gentleman — u a postern ! A postern 
for her Majesty !” 

Bussy was no longer there to hear. 
With his followers, who were laugh- 
ing in their sleeves, he was on his 
way to the place where, according to 
his instructions, he was to receive the 
Queen-mother. 

u Did your Majesty hear?” asked 
the gentleman — u the postern !” 
u Yes, sir, 1 heard. We will enter 
by the postern, since there is no other 

way.” 

And her flashing eyes conveyed a 
severe reprimand to the awkward 
speaker, who had thus expatiated on 
the humiliation to which his sovereign 

O 

was subjected. 

The party turned to the left, and 
the postern opened. 

Bussy, on foot and sword in hand, 
advanced forward from the gateway, 
and bowed respectfully to the Queen ; 
while round him plumes were sweep- 
ing the ground. 

u Your Majesty is welcome to An- 
gers,” said he. 

Standing by him were drummers 
who did not beat, and halberdiers 
who did not lower their arms. 

The Queen alighted from her litter, 
and, leaning on the arm of one of her 
followers, proceeded toward the gate, 
after simply saying : 

u Thank you, Monsieur de Bussy.” 
Such was the conclusion of the long 
meditations she had made while wait- 
ing for admittance. 

She walked with her head erect. 
Bussy was beforehand with, her, and 
even ventured to stop her by the arm. 

u Oh, take care, Madam — the gate- 
wav is very low. Your Majesty will 
strike against it.” 

u And so I must lower my head ?” 
said the Queen. u What is to be 
done ? It will be the first time I en- 
ter a town in such fashion ” 


% 

These words, uttered in a perfectly 
natural tone of voice, had a bearing 
and depth of meaning which was not 
lost upon those to whom they were 
addressed, and Bussy himself was 
slightly abashed. 

u You went too far,” whispered Li- 
varot. 

u Bah, this is nothing!” replied 
Bussy. u She will have to put up 
with much more.” 

With the assistance of a tackle her 
Majesty’s litter was hoisted over the 
wall, and she was able to resume her 
place in it on her way to the palace. 
Bussy and his friends, remounting 
their horses, formed an escort on 
either side of the litter. 

u My son !” said Catherine, sud- 
denly, u I do not see my son of An- 
jou !” 

These words were wrung from her 
by a feeling of exasperation which 
she found it impossible to restrain. 
In fact, the absence of Francis, on 
such an occasion, was the greatest of 
insults. 

u My lord is ill in bed, Madam, 
otherwise, your Majesty may rest as- 
sured that his Highness would gladly 
have been present, to do the honors 
of his town.” 

Here Catherine's hypocrisy assumed 
a sublime form. 

u 111 — poor child !” she cried, u ah, 
gentlemen, no delay ! Is he well 
cared for, at least ?” 

u VVe do our best,” said Bussy, with 
surprise, looking to see if there was 
really anything of the mother in the 
woman. 

u Does he know that I am here ?” 
resumed Catherine, after a pause, dur- 
ing which she passed in review the 
different gentlemen who had received 
her. 

u Certainly, Madam, he does.” 
Catherine bit her lips. 
u Does he suffer much ?” she con 
tinued to ask, in a tone of tender 
compassion. ; 

u Horribly,” replied Bussy. u His 
Highness is subject to these J .uddec 
attacks. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


3GT5 


44 Was it a sudden attack, Mon- 
sieur de Bussy ?” 

44 Very sudden, Madame.” 

And thus conversing, they neared 
the palace. Dense crowds lined both 
sides of the street, through which 
the litter had to pass. 

Bussy hastened up the staircase, 
and arrived in the duke’s presence 
quite out of breath. 

44 Here she comes — be wary !” 

44 Is she angry ?” 

44 Exasperated.” 

44 Does she complain ?” 

44 Oh, no — much worse, she smiles !” 
44 What say the people ?” 

44 The people hold firm, they look 
on the woman with silent terror; if 
they do not know her, they divine her. ’ ’ 
44 And she ?” 

44 She sends them kisses, and bites 
her fingers’ ends.” 

44 The devil !” 

44 Just what I thought myself, my 
lord. The devil — you will have a 
hard game to play !” 

44 We still stand out for war — do 
we not ?” 

44 Pardieu ! Ask a hundred to ob- 
tain ten, and from her you will only 
get five ” 

44 Bah, you must think me very 
inefficient ! Are you all here ! Why 
is not Monsoreau returned ?” asked 
the duke. 

44 I believe that he is at Meridor — 
but we shall get on well enough 
without him.” 

44 Her Majesty, the Queen Mo- 
ther !” cried the usher, throwing open 
the door. 

And Catherine entered, wan and 
dressed in black, according to her 
custom. 

The Duke of Anjou made a move- 
ment as if he would rise, but Cathe- 
rine, with an agility which no one 
would have suspected her worn-out 
body to be capable of displaying — 
Catherine threw herself into her son’s 
arms, and tenderly embraced him. 

44 She will smother him,” thought 
Bu3sy 44 they are real kisses, Mor- 
dieu '” 


She did more, she wept ! ! 

44 Let us be on our guard !” said 
Antraguet. 44 For each tear, she will 
exact gallons of blood.” 

Catherine having finished her em- 
braces, seated herself by the duke’s 
pillow. Bussy motioned to the com- 
pany to retire ; as for himself, he 
took up his station against one of the 
bed-posts, as coolly as though he was 
in his own room. 

44 Will you not have the kindness 
to look after my poor people, Mon- 
sieur de Bussy ?” said Catherine, sud- 
denly. 44 After our son, you are our 
nearest friend, and master of this 
house. I ask it as a favor.” 

He had to comply. 

44 I am caught,” thought Bussy. 

44 Madame,” said he, 44 1 shall be 
too happy to do anything to please 
your Majesty — I go.” 

44 Wait !” he muttered to himself, 
44 you do not know the doors here as 
well as at the Louvre. I shall re- 
turn.” 

Bussy had to retire without being 
able to make as much as a sign to the 
duke. Catherine, mistrusting him, 
watched him too closely. 

Catherine began by endeavoring to 
discover if her son were really indis- 
posed, or only feigning indisposition. 
Her conviction on this point was to 
be the basis of all her diplomatical 
operations. 

But, Francis, worthy son of such a 
mother, played his part admirably 
well. She had shed tears ; he had a 
fever. 

Catherine was imposed upon, and 
believed him to be sick ; she, conse- 
quently, hoped to have little difficulty 
in influencing his mind. She loaded 
him with caresses, again embraced 
him, and again shed tears ; he wa* 
surprised, and asked her what it all 
meant. 

44 You have been oxoosed to great 
danger, my son !” said she. 

44 In making my e sea do from the 
Louvre, mother "” 

44 Oh, no ! After your escape.” 

44 How so r” 


3*>4 DIANA OF MERIDOR : OR 


44 The people who assisted you” — 
44 Well !” 

44 Were your deadliest enemies.” 

44 She knows nothing,” he said to 
himself, 44 but she is trying to find 
out.” 

44 The King of Navarre, for in- 
stance,” she resumed — 44 the eternal 
plague of our race ! I can see his 
hand in it.” 

44 Ha, ha!” muttered Francis. 
44 She knows it.” 

44 Would you believe that he boasts 
of it, and flutters himself that he 
will now attain his ends ?” 

44 Impossible,” replied Francis, 
44 you have been imposed upon, 
mother.” 

44 Why do you think so ?” 

44 Because he had nothing to do 
with my escape, and because even 
supposing that he had, I am safe, as 
you see — two years have elapsed since 
I have seen the King of Navarre.” 

44 That is not the only danger I am 
alluding to, my son,” said Catherine, 
finding that she must change her tac- 
tics. 

44 What other danger, mother ?” 
asked Francis, glancing ever and anon 
at the alcove behind the Queen, the 
tapestry of which was in motion. 

Catherine drew near to Francis, 
and in a voice which she endeavored 
to render impressive : 

44 The Kind’s anger!” said she. 

o o 

44 The King’s furious anger which 

O O 

now threatens you.” 

44 The danger you speak of now is like 
the other danger, Madame. My bro- 
ther is in a furious rage — I can be- 
lieve that — but J am safe.” 

44 You think so !” said she, in a 
tone of voice which might have in- 

c 

timi dated the boldest. 

The tapestry shook. 

44 i am sure of it,” replied the 
.Duke, 44 and so true is it, my good 
mother, t*at you yourself are the 
bearer of my authority for saying 
so.” 

44 I do not understand,” said Ca- 
therine, beginning to feel uneasy at 
the calmness displayed by the Prince. 


44 Because,” said he, after a look 
at the tapestry, 44 you would never 
have consented to be the bearer of 
mere threats, and because the King 
would never, if he intended me harm, 
have consented to place such a hos- 
tage in my power.” 

Catherine started, much alarmed. 

44 I a hostage !” said she. 

44 The most sacred of all hostages,” 
rejoined Francis, smiling and kissing 
Catherine’s hand, though not without 
another look at the tapestry. 

Catherine let her arms fall, and 
felt as if she were conquered. She 
could not divine that Bussy had been 
watching his master from a secret 
door, and holding him in check from 
the very commencement of their con- 
versation — that in Bussy lay his 
strength and intelligence. 

44 My son,” said she, at last, 44 1 
am the bearer of words of peace ; 
you are perfectly right.” 

44 I am ready to hear you, mother,” 
said Francis, 44 you know with what 
respect. I think we are beginning to 
understand each other.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

« 

SMALL CAUSES AND GREAT EFFECTS 

Catherine had suffered, in the first 
part of the conversation, a palpable 
defeat. This species of check was so 
unforeseen by her, and above all so 
novel, that she was beginning to ask 
herself if it could be possible, that 
her son was really as decided in his 
resistance as he appeared to be, when 
a trifling circumstance supervened 
and changed the whole face of affairs. 

It is known that battles, on the 
point of being lost, have be^n i 
by a change of wind, a 
Marengo and Waterlov 
examples. A grain c 
change the direction of t 
erful machinery. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


365 


Bussy, as we have seen, was in a 
secret passage communicating with 
my Lord of Anjou’s alcove, and so 
placed that he could only be seen by 
the prince ; from his hiding-place, he 
could pass his head through an open- 
ing in the tapestry, whenever he 
deemed the cause he had embraced to 
be in danger. 

This cause, be it understood, was war 
at any price ; he was bound to remain 
in Anjou as long as Monsieur de 
Monsoreau should remain there, to 
watch die husband and visit the wife. 

This policy, extremely simple in 
itself, seriously affected the policy of 
the whole kingdom ; great effects 
flowing from small causes ! 

It will now be understood, why, 
with motions of the eye, with extra- 
vagant grimaces, with fierce gestures 
and frightful knitting of brows, Bussy 
kept urging his master not to yield an 
inch of ground. 

The duke, who feared Bussy, al- 
lowed him to influence him, and ac- 
cordingly, as we have seen, braved 
even his mother. 

Thus, Catherine was beaten at all 
points, and was already thinking of 
an honorable retreat, when a trifling 
circumstance, as unexpected as her 
husband’s obstinacy, came to the 
rescue. 

In the very middle of the conver- 
sation between the mother and son, 
and when matters were taking a turn 
more and more agreeable to his views, 
Bussy suddenly felt some one pulling 
him by the skirt of his cloak. Anxious 
not to lose a word of what was said 
on the other side, he put down his 
hand without turning round, and 
found another hand ; pursuing his in- 
vestigations, a little higher up he 
found an arm, then an elbow, next a 
shoulder, and lastly a man. 

Seeing that it might be worth 

* o o / - 

while, he turned round. 

The man was Remy. 

Bussy would have spoken, but Re- 
my discreetly raised his finger to his 
lips, and drew his master into the ad- 
joining room. 


“ What is the matter, Remy,” said 
the count impatiently, “ and why am 
1 disturbed ?” 

u A letter,” said Remy, in an un- 
der tone. 

“ The devil take thee ! For a 
mere letter, to take me away from a 
most important conversation I was 
carrying on with my lord the Duke 
of Anjou!” 

Remy appeared to be in no wise 
discomfited by this outbreak. 

u Here are letters and letters,” said 
he. 

u Of course there are,” said Bussy. 
u Whence this letter of your’s ?” 

“ From Meridor.” 
u Oh,” said Bussy, immediately, 
u from Meridor ! Thanks, good Re- 
my, thanks!” 

u Then I was not in the wrong ?” 
u Are you ever in the wrong ? VVherc 
is the letter ?” 

u Oh, that is precisely what makes 
me think that it is of the highest im- 
portance ! The messenger will only 
deliver it to yourself in person ” 

“ He is right. Is he here ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Let me see him.” 

Remy opened the door, and beck- 
oned to a man who looked like a 
groom. 

“ Here is Monsieur de Bnssy,” said 
he, pointing to the count. 

“ Give ; I am the person you seek,” 
said Bussy. 

And he put a half pistole into the 
man’s hand. 

“ I know you well,” said the groom, 
handing him the letter. 

“ She gave it to you herself ?” 

“ Not she, but he.” 

“ What he ?” asked Bussy, looking 
at the writing. 

“ Monsieur de Saint-Luc.” 

“Ha, ha!” 

Bussy had turned a little pale, for, 
at the word “ he,” he took it for 
granted that the letter came from the 
husband, and Monsoreau was privi- 
leged to make Bussy turn pale every 
time Bussy thought of him. 

Bussy turned aside, as well tc read 


3GG DIANA OF ME RID OR; OR, 


the letter as to hide, as he read, that 
emotion which every person is apt to 
exhibit when he receives an impor- 
tant communication, unless he be a 
Caesar Borgia, a Machiavelli, a Ca- 
therine of Medicis, or the devil. 

He was right in turning aside, poor 
Bussy ! For, scarcely had he run 
his eye over the epistle than the blood 
rushed to his head, and beat about 
his eyes like a sea in a tempest ; so 
that, from pale, that he had been, he 
turned purple ; he next felt himself 
growing giddy, and, to avoid falling 
on the floor, dropped into an arm- 
chair near the window. 

u Go,” said Remy to the groom, 

not knowing what to make of the 

* / 

effect produced by the letter. 

And he pushed him out by the 
shoulders. 

The groom took to his heels : he 
thought that the news must have been 
unwelcome, and he feared for his half 
pistole. 

Remy returned to the Count and 
shook him by the arm. 

u Mordieu /” cried he , u answer me 
on the spot, or by Saint Esculapius, 
1 shall bleed you in your four limbs !” 
Bussy rose to his feet : he was no 
longer purple or giddy : he was 
thoughtful. 

He handed the letter to Remy. 
Remy read it eagerly. 
u Well,” said he, u all this is very 
satisfactory, it seems to me, and Mon- 
sieur de Saint-Luc is the best of 
friends. Give me a man of genius 
for sending a soul to purgatory. He 
does the business at once !” 

u It is incredible,” said Bussy. 
u Of course, it is incredible, but 
that matters not. Our position is 
now totally changed. In a few 
months I shall have a Madame de 
Bussy for my patient. Mordieu , fear 
nothing. 1 can match Ambrose 
Pare !” 

a Yes,” said Bussy, u she shall be 

mv wife.” 

%/ 

u It seems to me,” said Remy, 
u that will be no very difficult matter 
to accomplish.’’ 


u Monsoreau dead !” 

“ Dead !” repeated Le Haudouin 
u It is recorded.” 

u Oh, it appears to me that I am 
dreaming, Remy ! What, I shall 
never again see that spectral figure 
which was constantly interposing it- 
self between me and happiness ! Re- 
my, we are deluding ourselves.” 
u Not the least in the world. 
Read again, Mordieu ! See here — he 
fell on a bed of poppies, and so awk- 
wardly that he died on the spot ! I 
knew, before, that it was dangerous 
to fall on poppies, but I always used 
to think that the danger concerned 
the other sex.” 

u But now,” said Bussy, not at- 
tending to Remy’s pleasantries, and 
following the course of his own 
thoughts, u Diana cannot remain at 
Meridor. I will not have her remain 
there. She must go somewhere else 
— to some place where she can for- 
get.” 

u I think Paris will do,” said Le 
Haudouin: u events are soonforgotten 
in Paris.” 

u You are right : she shall go back 
to her little house in the Rue des 
Tournelles — we will pass the ten 
months of mourning in obscurity — if, 
indcqd, happiness can remain in ob- 
scurity — and marriage will be to us 
only the morrow after the felicity of 
the preceding day.” 

u All right,” said Remy, u but to 
get to Paris — ” 

° “ Well.” 

u We want something.” 
u What r” 
u Peace in Anjou.” 
u True,” cried Bussy, u true ! Oh, 
what precious time I have lost, and 
lost uselessly.” 

u Which means that you will mouut 
your horse and gallop off to Meridor. ” 
u No, not I, at least, but you. I 
am compelled to remain here : be- 
side, considering the circumstances, 
it would not, perhaps, be proper for 
me to show myself there.” 

u How shall I see her — how shall I 
present myself at the castle ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


367 


u Go first to the old coppice-wood : 
expecting me, she will perhaps be 
walking there ; then, if you do not 
see her, go to the castle.” 
u What shall I say to her ?” 
u That I am half crazy.” 

And shaking the young leech by 
the hand, he hastened to resume his 
place in the alcove behind the tapes- 
try. He knew from experience that 
he could rely upon Remy as upon 
himself. 

Catherine, in Bussy’s absence, had 
been exerting herself to recover the 
influence of which his presence had 
deprived her. 

u My son,” said she, u it seems to 
me to be impossible that a mother 
should ever fail to come to a right un- 
derstanding with her son.” 

u You see, nevertheless, mother,” 
replied the Duke of Anjou, u that it 
may sometimes happen.” 

u Never, when she wishes to suc- 
ceed.” 

u You mean to say, Madame, when 
they wish it,” rejoined the Duke, who 
looked for Bussy’s approving nod. 

u But I wish it,” cried Catherine, 
u understand me well, Francis — 1 
wish it.” 

The expression of her voice con- 
trasted with her words, for her words 
were imperative, while her voice was 
almost supplicating. 

u You wish it ?” rejoined the Duke 
of Anjou, smiling. 

u Yes,” said Catherine, u I wish it, 
and I am ready to make any sacrifice 
for the sake of it.” 

u Ha, ha,” said Francis, u the 
deuce you are.” 

u Yes, dear son. Say, what do 
you exact — what do you require ? 
Speak — command. ” 

u Oh, mother,” said Francis, al- 
most embarrassed by so complete a 
victory, which put it out of his power 
to act the part of an extortioner. 

u Listen to me, my son,” said 
Catherine in her most winning tones ; 
u your design" is not to make this 
kingdom of France run with blood ; 
that cannot be your purpose. You 
24 


are neither a bad Frenchman nor a 
bad brother.” 

u My brother has insulted me, 
Madame, and I no longer owe him 
anything — nothing as brother, nothing 
as king.” 

u But to me, Francis, to me you 
owe something. You hare no reason 
to coinplain of me.” 

u Yes, I have, Madame, for you 
forsook me in my difficulties,” re- 
sumed the duke, taking it for granted 
that Bussy was there listening to him 
all the while. 

“ Oh, you seek my death,” said 
Catherine, gloomily. “ Well, let 
death come, since, if I live, I must 
witness the destruction of my children 
by their own hands.” 

It is needless to say that Catherine 
had not the least desire to die. 

u Oh, do not say so, Madame, you 
rend my heart !” cried Francis, whose 
heart was quite at ease. 

Catherine burst into tears. 

The duke, glancing uneasily at the 
alcove, took her by the hand and 
tried to re-assure her. 

u I again ask, what is it you re- 
quire ?” said she. u Let us, at least, 
know wliat your pretensions are, that 
we may know what to do.” 

u What is it you require yourself? 
Come, speak, mother,” said Francis. 
u I am prepared to hear you.” 

u I want you to return to Paris, 
my dear son — I want you to return 
to your brother, whose arms are open 
to receive you.” 

u ’Sdeath, Madame, I am not 
blind ! It is not his arms that are 
open to receive me, but the gates of 
the Bastille.” 

u No, come back, come back, and 
I swear by my honor, by my maternal 
affection, by the blood of our Lord 
and Saviour” (here Catherine cross- 
ed herself), u that you will be re- 
ceived by the King as if you were the 
king, and he the Duke of Anjou.” 
The duke was unyielding, he was 
looking at the alcove. 

u Accept, my son,” continued 
' Catherine, u accept ; do you desire 


368 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


more principalities — speak — do you 
desire to have guards ?” 

u Oh, Madame, as for guards, your 
son gave me guards, and guards of 
honor, even, for he bestowed his four 
minions on me.” 

u Come, answer me not in that way ; 
you shall choose your own guards ; 
you shall have a captain, if you de- 
sire one, and if again you desire it, 
your captain shall be Monsieur de 
Bussy.” 

The duke, shaken by this last offer, 
looked again toward the alcove, 
dreading to encounter a pair of flash- 
ing eyes, and white teeth grinning in 
the shade. But, oh, surprise ! He 
saw, on the contrary, Bussy smiling, 
joyous, and approving as hard as he 
could with abundant nods. 

u What does all this mean ?” said 
the duke to himself. u Did Bussy 
advocate war only to become the 
captain of my guards ?” 

u Then,” said he aloud, as if in- 
terrogating himself, u I ought to ac- 
cept.’ J 

u Yes, yes, yes,” continued Bussy, 
approving with increasing intensity 
of expression. 

u Certainly, my dear son,” said 
Catherine. u Why should you make 
any difficulty about returning to 
Paris ?” 

u Faith,” said the duke, u I am at 
my wits’ ends. We were agreed that 
I was to refuse everything, and now 
he is advising me to peace, and to 
accept these friendly offers.” 

u Well,” said Catherine anxiously, 
u what do you determine on ?” 

u Mother, I will think it over,” 
replied the duke, who wanted to con- 
sult with Bussy, u and to-morrow — ” 
u He is yielding,” thought Cathe- 
rine. u After all, I have gained the 
day.” 

u Bussy may be right,” thought 
the duke. 

And the mother and son departed 
after a tender embrace. 


CHAPTER X 

HOW MONSIEUR DE MONSOREATJ OPEN- 
ED, CLOSED AND REOPENED HI8 
EYES, WHICH WAS A PROOF THAT HE 
WAS NOT QUITE DEAD. 

A good friend is a great blessing, 
and all the greater for being a rare 
blessing. Such was Remy’s reflec- 
tion as he gallopped across the coun- 
try on one of the best steeds in the 
prince’s stables. He would have 
taken Roland, but Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau had been beforehand with 
him, and so he was compelled to take 
up with another. 

u I like Monsieur de Bussy much,” 
said Le Haudouin to himself, 66 and I 
believe that Monsieur de Bussy likes 
me. Now, then, I am a happy man 
to-day, for he is happy.” 

Then he added, his breast swell- 
ing with emotion, 

u I sincerely believe that my heart 
is no longer big enough. 

u Let me see,” said he, continuing 
to soliloquize, u let me see how I 
shall address Madame Diana. 

u If I find her reserved, formal 
and serious, I shall salute her with 
silent bows, and my hand on my 
heart. If she smiles I shall execute 
sundry pirouettes, and a Polish step 
of my own invention. 

u As for Monsieur de Saint-Luc, 
if he be still at the castle, which is 
doubted, I shall cry bravo, and offer 
him thanks in Latin. I feel pretty 
sure that he will not be serious. 
u Ha, here I am !” 

Truly enough, the horse, after 
turning to the left, and then to vue 
right, after passing through the 
flowery lane, after crossing the cop- 
pice-wood and the forest, was now in 
the thicket adjoining the park-wall. 

u Oh, what splendid poppies !” said 
Remy. u They remind me of our 
Grand-Huntsman ; his bed would not 
have surpassed these, poor dear 
man !” 

Remy was approaching the wall. 
The horse suddenly stopped, his 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


369 


nostrils dilated and his eyes staring. 
Remy, not expecting this sudden stop 
to his rapid pace, was nearly thrown 
over the horse’s head. 

Rerry, a practised rider, and con- 
sequently a fearless one, began to use 
his spurs, but Mithridates would not 
move. Mithridates was so called, 
probably, from the resemblance which 
his obstinate character bore to that of 
the king of Pontus. 

Not a little surprised, Remy looked 
about him for the cause of his horse’s 
alarm. But he could see nothing but 
a large pool of blood, which was be- 
ing gradually absorbed by the earth 
and surrounding flowers. 

O 

u Zounds,’’ said he, u can it be 
here that Monsieur de Saint-Luc did 
for Monsieur de Monsoreau ?” 

Remy raised his eyes from the 
ground and looked further on. 

Ten paces from where he stood, 
and close by the wall, he saw two 
legs and a body. 

Monsoreau, not a doubt of it !” 
exclaimed Remy. u Hie obiit Nim- 
rod. Well, since the widow leaves 
him thus exposed to the crows and 
vultures, it is a good sign for us, and 
my funeral oration will be delivered 
with pirouettes and the aforesaid Pol- 
ish step.’' 

And Remy, having alighted, drew 
near the body. 

u This is queex !” said he. u Here 
he is dead, quite dead, and there be- 
low is his blood \ Ha, here is a 
trace ! He must have dragged him- 
self hither, or ratner, Monsieur de 
Saint-Luc, who is charity itself, must 
have placed him against the wall, to 
keep his head free from blood. Yes, 
that is it — there is no question but he 
is dead — his eyes are open ana with- 
out expression — stone dead ! d h*s 
was it — one, two” — 

And Remy executed a disengage 
ment in the air, with his finger. 

But, now, he suddenly recoiled, 
aghast and gaping. The two eyes 
which he had seen open, were closed, 
and a paleness more livid than that 
which had at first struck him, spread 


| over the countenance of the dead 
man. 

Remy turned almost as pale as 
Monsieur de Monsoreau : but, as he 
was a doctor, which is as much as to 
say he was something of a materialist, 
he muttered as he rubbed the end of 
his nose : 

u Credere portends mediocre. Since 
he has closed his eyes, he is not dead.” 

And as, despite his materialism, 
the encounter was not an agreeable 

O 

one, and as his knees were trembling 

7 O 

a little more than was befitting his 
dignity, he sat down, or rather slided 
down, and found himself fronting the 
body. 

u I know not,” said he, “ where I 
have read that after death, certain 
phenomena of motion occur in the 
body, marking the subsidence of mat- 
ter, that is to say, the commencement 
of corruption. 

u The deuce take the man ! He 
must annoy us even in death ! What 
good does it do him ? Yes, faith, 
not only are his eyes closed, but the 
paleness has increased — color albus , 
chroma chloron — as Galen says — color 
albus — as Cicero, who was a great 
orator, says. For the rest, it will be 
an easy matter to ascertain whether 
he be dead or alive. I have only to 
take my sword and stick him through 
the body with it. If he move not, I 
may conclude that he is dead.” 

Remy was proceeding to make this 
charitable experiment ; already was' 
his hand on his rapi-er, when Monso- 
reau’s eyes opened afresh. 

This last incident produced an ef- 
fect contrary to the first. Remy 
jumped up as if moved by a spring, 
and the cold perspiration ran down 
his forehead. 

The eyes of the dead man were now 
fixed. 

u He is not dead,” murmured Re- 
my, u he is not dead ! A pretty po- 
, sition I am in !” 

A very natural suggestion presented 
itselt to the mind of the young man 

“ He lives,” said he, u it is true, 
but if 1 kill him, he will be dead ” 


370 


♦ 

DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, , 


And he looked at Monsoreau, wYiO, j 
in return, stared at him with such a 
horrified countenanc3 that it seemed 
as if* he read what was passing in Re- 
iny’s heart. 

u Out upon it,” cried Remy sud- 
denly, u out upon it — hideous thought! 
Heaven is my witness, that were he 
standing there before me, erect and 
brandishing his rapier, I would kill 
him with all my heart. But, in his 
present state, helpless and more than 
half, dead, it would be the basest of 
crimes.” 

u Help !” murmured Monsoreau, 
u help, I am dying!” 

u ’Sdeath,” cried Remy, u I am in 
an embarrassing position. I am a 
physician, and consequently it is my 
duty to succor my fellow man. True, 
Monsoreau is so ugly, that I should 
be almost justified in refusing to look 
upon him as such : still, there can be 
but little doubt that he belongs to the 
genus homo — and so, let me forget 
that I am named Le Haudouin — let me 
forget that I am Bussy’s friend, and 
let me proceed to do my duty as a 
physician.” 

u Kelp !” repeated the wounded man. 

ii Here !” said Remy. 

u Bring me a priest and a physi- 
cian.” 

u The physician is at hand, and he 
hopes he will enable you to dispense 
with the priest.” 

u Le Haudouin !” cried Monsoreau, 
recognizing Remy — u By what chance 
are you here ?” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau was faith- 
ful to his character ; even in what he 
supposed were the agonies of death, 
he was suspicious of treachery. 

Remy felt the full bearing of the 
question. The road through the 
wood was not a beaten road ; why 
should he have taken it? The ques- 
tion was natural. 

u Why are you here ?” again asked 
Monsoreau, his suspicions giving him 
strength and energy. 

u Pardieu /” replied Le Haudouin, 
u because I have just met Monsieur 
de Saint-Luc.” 


u Ah, my murderer !” muttered 
Monsoreau, turning pale from angei 
and pain. 

u He said to me — Remy, hasten to 
the woods, and close by what is call- 
ed the old coppice, you will find a 
dead man.” 

u Dead !” repeated Monsoreau. 
u Yes, he thought so,” said Remy, 
u you must not blame him for that. 
Well, I ran, and here I am ! ” 

u And now, tell me — you are 
speaking to a man — be frank — tell 
me, am I mortally wounded 

u The deuce,” said Remy, u that 
is a serious question ! However, 1 
shall try and answer it.” 

It has been remarked that the con- 
science of the physician had risen su- 
perior to the obligations of the 
friend Remy, therefore, proceeded 
to act with all the precaution custom- 
ary on such occasions. He removed 
the wounded man’s cloak, doublet, 
and shirt. 

The wound was under the right 
breast, between the sixth and seventh 
rib. 

u Hum,” said Remy. u Do you 
suffer much ?” 

u Not in the breast — in the back.” 
u Hah, let us see !” said Remy, 
u in what part of the back ?” 

u Under the fleshy part of the 
shoulder.” 

u The blade struck a bone,” said 
Remy. u Hence the pain.” 

He examined the part where the 
count had said he felt most pain. 

u No,” said he, u no, I am mis- 
taken ; the blade did not strike the 
bone, it passed clean through. What 
a thrust, Monsieur le Comte ! I pro- 
test that it is quite a pleasure to 
look after such wounds ! Well done, 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc ! A man 
can see through you, my dear sir.” 
Monsoreau here fainted, but this 
circumstance did not render Remy in 
the least uneasy. 

u Hah, this is well ! Syncope — 
pulse low — fast as it should be.” He 
felt the hands and extremities. u Cold 
in the extremities.” He placed his 




THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


371 


ear against the breast. u Respira- 
tion, silent.” He tapped gently on 
the breast. u Sound, dull. The 
deuce, Madame Diana’s widowhood 
may turn out after all to be chimeri- 
cal !” 

At this moment, a slight reddish 
froth moistened the lips of the 
wounded man. 

Bussy instantly felt in his pocket 
and drew out his lancet-case ; next, 
he tore a strip from the wounded 
man’s shirt, and bandaged his arm. 

u We shall see,” said he, u if the 
blood run ; faith, there is small 
chance of Madame Diana’s being a 
widow — but if it do not run ! Ha, 
ha, it runs, by my faith ! Pardon 
me, my dear Monsieur Bussy, pardon 
me, but duty before everything !” 
True enough, the blood, after hesi- 
tating, as it were, for a moment, now 
spouted from the vein. Almost at 
the same instant, Monsoreau opened 
his eyes. 

a Ah,” he muttered, u I thought 
that all was over.” 

u Not yet, my dear sir, not yet ; 
it is even possible” — 
u That I may recover ?” 
u Oh, Mon JDieu , yes ! I hope so. 
Let us first close the wound. Stir 
not — you see nature is bleeding you 
externally. Nature will supply her 
styptic, just as I shall apply mine. 
Oh, sir, nature is the greatest of chi- 
rurgeons. There, let me wipe your 
lips.” 

And Remy passed a handkerchief 
over the wounded man’s lips. 

u At first,” said the count, u I spat 
mouthfuls of blood.” 

u Well, now,” said Remy, u the 
hemorrhage is stopped. Good ! 
You are doing well. So much the 
worse !” 

u How, so much the worse ?” 
iL Certainly, so much the better for 
pou — but, so much the worse, never- 
theless — I know what I say ! My 
dear Monsieur de Monsoreau, I am 
afraid I shall have the happiness of 
curing you.” 

u How — you are afraid ?” 


u Oh, I know.” 

u You think, then, that I shall re- 
cover ?” 

“ Alas!” 

u You are a strange doctor, Mon- 
sieur Remy.” 

u What need you care, provided I 
save you ? Now, let us see.” 

Remy stopped the bleeding and 
rose. 

u Well, are you going to forsake 
me ?” 

“ Oh, you speak too much, my 
dear sir. Too much speaking hurts. 
Now I think of it, I ought perhaps 
to advise him to scream, rather than 
to hold his tongue.” 

u I do not understand you.” 
u Fortunately, your wound is 
dressed now.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Well! I shall go to the castle 
for assistance.” 

u And what am I to do while you 
are away ?” 

u Keep yourself quiet ; stir not ; 
breathe gently ; try not to cough. 
We must not disturb the precious 
healing process of nature. Which is 
the nearest house ?” 

u The castle of Meridor.” 
u Which is the road ?” asked Re- 
my, pretending ignorance. 

u Climb over this wall, and you 
will be in the park, or follow the 
wall and you will come to the grat- 
mg. 

u Take care of yourself — I am 
off.” 

“ Thank you, generous man,” 
cried Monsoreau. 

“ If you only knew how generously 
I have acted,” stammered Remy, 
u you would thank me still more.” 
And mounting his steed, he put 
him to a gallop in the direction indi- 
cated. 

In five minutes he reached the 
castle, where he found the whole 
household astir, like ants that have 
been disturbed, seeking in every con- 
ceivable place for their master’s body, 
without being able to find it, inas- 
much as Saint-Luc, in order to gain 


372 


DIANA OF -MERIDOR; OR, 


time, had not been at the trouble to 
be very exact in his information. 

Remy was eagerly listened to. He 
told them to follow him, and spoke 
with such earnestness and solicitude 
that Madame de Monsoreau could 
not help looking at him with sur- 
prise* 

A secret thought, concealed from 
every eye, presented itself to her 
mind, and for a brief space tarnished 
her angelic purity. 

u Ah, I thought he was Monsieur 
de Bussy’s friend,” she murmured, as 
Remy was hastening away, taking 
with him a litter, lint, and fresh 
water — everything, in a word, the con- 
dition of his patient required. 

The god JEsculapius could not 
have done more. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOW THE DUKE OF ANJOU WENT TO 
MERIDOR TO CONDOLE WITH MADAME 
DE MONSOREAU ON HER HUSBAND’S 
DEATH, AND HOW MONSIEUR DE 
MONSOREAU WAS THERE TO RECEIVE 
HIM. 

Immediately after separating from 
his mother, the Duke of Anjou 
hastened to see Bussy, that he might 
learn the cause of the wonderful 
change that had taken place in Bus- 
sy’s sentiments. 

Bussy was at home, reading for the 
fiftieth time Saint-Luc’s letter, and 
each time finding in it matter for the 
most agreeable reflections. 

Catherine was issuing orders to her 
people, and directing her equipages 
to be ready for her departure, which 
she hoped would not be delayed be- 
yond two days at furthest. 

Bussy was all smiles as the prince 
entered. 

u What, my ’lord,” said he, 
u vour Highness condescends to call 
upon me !” 


“ Yes, Mordieu /” said the duke 
u and I have come to ask for an ex- 
planation.” 

u To ask me ?” 
u Yes, yoiv” 

u I am listening, my lord.” 
a What !” cried the duke, u you 
advise me to defend myself with 
might and main against my mother’s 
suggestions, and to stand out against 
her threats and entreaties. I do so, 
and in the very heat of battle, when 
all her efforts have well nigh failed, 
you would have me doff my armor 
and yield !” 

u When I gave my advice, my lord, 
I knew not with what intent Madame 
Catherine came here ; but, now that 
I am aware that her purpose is to 
exalt your Highness higher than 
ever — ” 

u How do you mean ?” interrupted 
the duke. u Higher than ever ! 
Explain.” 

u Certainly, higher than ever,” 
replied Bussy. u What does your 
Highness want ? Is it not to triumph 
over your enemies? For, I do not 
believe the current report that you 
aim at the crown.” 

The duke looked stealthily at 
Bussy. 

u Such may be the advice of some, 
my lord,” continued the young noble, 
u but believe they are your worst 
enemies. And if you find them too 
persevering ; if you know not how 
to get rid of them, send them to me. 
I will undertake to convince them 
that they are mistaken in their 
views.” 

The duke made a face. 
u Besides,” continued Bussy. u Iook 
into the matter, measure the girth of 
your loins, as t' Rible says. « Have 
you a hundred nen, ten 

millions of moi eign K- 

liances ? Do 3 'f gofog 

against your lief 

u My liege In ed to go 

against me,” sai 

u Oh, if you atter in 

that light, you Declare 

y rnrseif, seize i wn, and 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


373 


assume the title of King of France. 
I ask for no better than to see your 
power grow greater ; for the greater 
you are, the greater I shall be.” 
u Who talks of my becoming King 
of France ?” said the duke sharply. 
u You are discussing a question that 
I have never raised, even to myself.” 
u Then all is said, my lord, and 
there need be no farther discussion 
between us, since we agree on the 
principal point.” 
u We agree !” 

O 

u So it seems to me, at least. 
Make them give you a company of 
guards, and five hundred thousand 
francs. Before peace is signed, 
obtain a subsidy from Anjou for cause 
of war. Once you get the money 
into your hands, you can keep it, 
war or no war. By acting thus, we 
will have men, money, and power ; 
and, with the favor of fortune, we 
may reaoh — I shall not say what.” 
u But once they get me to Paris, 
once they hold me in their power, 
they will laugh at me,” said the 
duke. 

u Come, my lord, you do not think 
that. They laugh at you ! You 
ha,ve heard what her Majesty the 
Queen-mother offers you.” * 

u She offers me many things.” 
u And therefore you feel alarm- 
ed ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u But, among other things, she 
offers you a company of guards, to be 
commanded, if you require it, by 
Monsieur de Bussy.” 

u Certainly, she offers that.” 
u Well, accept ! Such is my ad- 
vice. Appoint Bussy your captain ; 
appoint Antraguet and Livarot your 
lieutenants ; appoint Riberac ensign. 
Leave the organization of the compa- 
ny t,o us four, and’ you will see if, with 
such an escort at your heels, any man 
shall dare laugh at you, or evade sa- 
luting you when you pass, were it 
the King himself.” 

u By my faith, 1 believe that you 
are right, Bussy,” said the duke. u I 
will think the matter over.’’ 


u Think well, my lord.” 
u But, what were vou reading s<i 
attentive^ when I came in ?” 

u Oh, pardon me, I forgot ! A 
letter.” 

u A letter ?” 

u Which interests you more than it 
does me. Where the deuce were my 
brains, not to have shown it you be- 
fore ?” 

u Good news .” 

u Oh, no, rather bad news ! Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau is dead ” 

u What is that you say ?” cried the 
duke, with marked surprise. Bussy 
thought that there was something like 

O O 

satisfaction mingled with surprise. 
u Dead, my lord.” 
u Monsieur de Monsoreau dead !” 
u Eh, Mon DieUj yes! Are we 
not all mortal ?” 

u True, but people do not die so 
suddenly.” 

u That is according — if you are 
killed ?” 

u Then he was killed ?” 
u It seems so.” 
u By whom ?” 

u By Saint-Luc, with whom he 
picked a quarrel.’’ 

u Ah, good Saint-Luc !’’ cried the 
prince. 

u Ho, ho !” said Bussy. u I was 
not aware that Saint-Luc was one of 
your friends.” 

u He is one of my brother's 
friends,” said the duke, u and since 
we are about to become reconciled to 
each other, his friends are my friends.” 
u Well spoken, my lord ! I am 
delighted to hear you express such 
sentiments.” 

u Your news is certain ?” 
u As certain as can be. There is a 
note from Saint-Luc, informing me of 
his death, and as I am as incredulous 
as yourself and had my doubts, my 
lord, I have dispatched Remy to as- 
certain the fact, and to express my 
regret to the old baron.” 

u Dead — Monsoreau dead !” re- 
peated the duke. u Dead, of his own 
accord /” 

These last words escaped from the 


374 


DIANA OF MRRIDOR; OR, 


duke’s lips, as good Saint-Luc had 
escaped from them. Both had a ter- 
rible meaning. 

44 lie did not die of his own ac- 
cord,” said Bussy, 44 since he was 
killed by Saint-Luc.” 

44 Oh, I know what I mean ?” 

44 Had my lord made any arrange- 
ments for his dying by some other 
hand ?” 

44 Oh, no — not at all — had you ?” 
44 Oh, I, my lord, I am not great 
prince enough, to get such work done 
by the hands of others — I am obliged 
to do it with my own!” 

44 Ha, Monsoreau, Monsoreau!” 
repeated the prince, with one of his 
sinister smiles. 

44 Why, my lord, one would be apt 
to think that you owed him a grudge.” 
44 No, but you did.” 

44 I certainly did owe him a grudge, 
and no wonder,” said Bussy, chang- 
ing color. 44 Was he not the cause 
of your Highness’s inflicting on me 
the most painful of humiliations ?” 

44 You have not forgotten that ?” 

44 Oh, Mon Dieu , yes, my lord ! I 
think that I have proved that I have. 
But you, whose friend, servant, tool, 
he was — ” 

44 Come, come,” said the prince, 
breaking off a conversation which was 
becoming embarrassing, 44 order our 

o 0 7 

horses to be saddled.” 

44 Our horses to be saddled! What 
for ?” 

44 For a ride to Meridor. I would 
make a visit of ceremony to Madame 
Diana. Indeed, I have long been in- 
tending to call there, and I know not 
why 1 have delayed ; but I shall de- 
lay no longer. Corbleau , my head is 
somehow running on compliments to- 
day !” 

u Faith,” said Bussy to himself, 
44 now that Monsoreau is dead, and 
that I am no longer afraid of his see- 
ing his wife, it matters little to me 
whether the duke sees her or not. If 
he persecute her, I should know how 
to defend her. And, since an oppor- 
tunity presents itself of my seeing 
her, let me take advantage of it.” 


With these words, he withdrew to 
order the horses. 

A quarter of an hour after, while 
Catherine was sleeping away the fa- 
tigue of her journey, or pretending to 
do so, the prince, Bussy, and ten gen- 
tlemen, mounted on gallant steeds, 
were wending their way toward Meri- 
dor, the whole party animated by the 
fine weather, the beautiful scenery, 
and the exhilaration of youth and 
good health. 

As soon as the splendid cavalcade 
drew up at the castle gate, the keep- 
er advanced to the edge of the moat to 
inquire for the names of the visit- 
ors. 

44 The Duke of Anjou!” cried the 
prince. 

The keeper instantly blew his horn, 
and sounded a flourish which brought 
the feudal retainers to the draw- 
bridge. 

O 

There was running through the 
apartments and passages, tower win- 
dows opened, iron and steel clanged 
in the court-yard ; and the old 
baron made his appearance, bearing 
in his hand the keys of the castle. 

44 Strange how little Monsoreau 
seems to be regretted !” said the duke. 
44 See, Bussy, how natural all those 
people look!” 

A woman stood on the perron. 

44 Oh, there comes the beauteous Di- 
ana !” cried the duke. 44 See, Bussy, 
see !” 

44 Of course, I see her, my lord,” 
said the young noble, 4k but,” added 
he in a whisper, 44 I see no Remy.” 

Diana was on her way from the 
castle ; but, immediately behind Di- 
ana came a litter, and in the litter 
lay Monsoreau, his eye sparkling 
with fever or jealousy, and he him- 
self more like an Indian sultan on his 
palanquin than any inferior mortal. 

44 Ho, ho, what does that mean ?” 
cried the Duke, addressing his com- 
panion, now whiter than the handker- 
chief, with the assistance of which he 
was endeavoring to conceal his emo- 
tion. 

44 Long live my lord the Duke of 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


375 


Anj ou !” cried Monsoreau, making a l 
violent effort to raise his hand. 

u Take care !” said a voice behind 
him. a You will burst your wounds.” 
It was Remy, faithful to the last to 
his professional character, who gave 
this prudent counsel. 

Surprises do not last long at courts — 
on faces, at least ; the Duke of Anjou 
had soon converted his bewilderment 
into a smile. 

u Oh, my dear count,” cried he, 
u what a pleasing surprise ! Would 
you believe that we were told you 
were dead !” 

u Come over, come over, my lord,” 
gaid the wounded man, u that I may 
kiss your Highness’ hand. Thank 
God, not only 1 am not dead, but I 
hope to be soon well enough to give 
your Highness renewed proofs of my 
zeal and fidelity.” 

As for Bussy, who was neither prince 
nor husband — those two social posi- 
tions in which the practice of dissimu- 
lation is most needful — he felt the 
cold perspiration dripping down his 
forehead. He did not dare look at 
Diana. The sight of that treasure 
twice lost to him, and now standing by 
her lord’s side, was painful inhi.s eyes. 

a And you, Monsieur de Bussy — 
you who have come with his Highness 
— receive my hearty thanks, for it is 
almost to you that I owe my life.” 
u What ? — to me !” stammered the 
young noble, imagining that the 
count was making a jest of him. 

u Yes: indirectly, it is true, but 
my gratitude is not the less ; for, here 
is my savior,” added he, pointing to 
Remy, who was flinging his arms 
about in despair, and would have been 
glad to hide himself in the bowels of 
the earth : u it is to him that my 
friends must consider themselves in- 
debted for my preservation.” 

And notwithstanding all the poor 
doctor’s efforts to make him observe 
silence — efforts which were attributed 
by Monsoreau to his anxiety for his 
health — he proceeded to describe the 
care, the skill and attention, the leech 
had bestowed upon him. 


The duke knit his brows : Bussy 
gave Remy one terrible look. 

The poor fellow, concealed behind 
Monsoreau, could only make answer 
by a sign which signified : 

u Alas, it was not my fault !” 
u For the rest,” continued the 
count, u I am informed that Remy 
found yourself one day dying as I was 
dying. This establishes a bond of 
friendship between us : rely upon 
mine, Monsieur de Bussy : when 
Monsoreau likes, he likes well. True, 
that when he hates, it is as when he 
likes, that is to say, with all his 
heart.” 

Bussy thought that he could per- 
ceive that the flash which had sparkled 
for an instant in the feverish eye of 
the count, as he pronounced these 
words, was intended for the Duke of 
Anjou. 

The duke saw nothing. 
u Come,” said he, alighting from 
his horse and giving his hand to Di- 
ana, u deign, beauteous Diana, to do 
us the honors of this house, where wo 
expected to find mourning and wail- 
ing, but which continues, on the con- 
trary, to be the abode of joys and 
blessings. As for you, Monsoreau, 
betake yourself to bed: wounded men 
require rest.” 

u My lord,” replied the count, u it 
shall never be said that you visited 
Monsoreau, and that while Monso- 
reau lived, another than he did the 
honors of his house to your Highness. 
My people will carry me, and wher- 
ever you go, I shall go.” 

It really looked as though the duke 
saw through Monsoreau’s object, for 
no sooner had the latter spoken thaa 
he dropped Diana’s hand. 

Monsoreau breathed. 

“ Go near her,” whispered Remy 
in Bussy’s ear. 

Bussy went up to Diana, and Mon- 
soreau smiled. Bussy took Diana’s 
hand, and Monsoreau smiled again. 

u This is a great change, Monsieur 
le Comte,” said Diana in a low voice. 

u Alas,” murmured Bussy, u that 
it were still greater !” 


370 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


It is needless to state that the baron 
displayed, in his reception of the 
prince and his suite, all the pomp and 
magnificence of patriarchal hospital- 
ity. 


CHAPTER XII. 

OF THE INCONVENIENCE ATTENDING 

LARGE LITTERS AND SMALL DOORS. 

Bussy remained by Diana’s side. 
Monsoreau’s friendly smile had con- 
veyed a permission of which he was 
not slow to avail himself. It is the 
fate of jealous men that after their 
most arduous struggle for the pre- 
servation of their treasure, they are 
sure to cast it at the feet of some 
poacher in disguise. 

u I am, in truth, Madame,” said 
Bussy to Diana, u the most miserable 
of men. On receiving the news of 
his death, I advised the prince to re- 
turn to Paris, and to make friends 
with his mother. He consented, and 
now, I shall have to leave you behind 
in Anjou ! ’ 

u Oh, Louis,” replied the count- 
ess, pressing Bussy’s hand with the 
tips of her slender fingers, u how can 
you think that we are neglected by 
fortune ! So many happy days, 
so many ineffaceable joys, the memo- 
ry of which thrills my heart ! Can 
you forget them ?” 

u I forget nothing, Madame ; on 
the contrary, I remember them but* 
too well, and for this very reason — 
because all is lost — I am so much to 
be pitied. Imagine what I shall suf- 
fer, Madame, when compelled to re- 
turn to Paris, a hundred leagues away 
from your presence ! Oh, Diana, my 
heart fails me ! I am completely dis- 
couraged.” 

Diana looked up at Bussy ; but, 
seeing the intense agony expressed in 
his features, she bent down her head 
again, and reflected. 


Bussy paused and waited, his hands 
folded, his looks supplicating. 

u Well,”' said Diana suddenly, 

“ you are going to Paris — 1 shall go 
too !” 

u # What,” cried Bussy, u will you 
leave Monsieur de Monsoreau r” 
u I might be willing to leave him,” 
replied Diana, u but he will never be 
willing to leave me. No, believe me, 
Louis, it will be better that he should 
come with us.” 

u Wounded, sick, as he is — impos- 
sible !” 

u He will come, take my word for it.” 
And leaving Bussy’s arm, she drew 
near the prince, who was conversing 
in very good humor with Monsoreau 
Riberae, Antraguet, and Livarot, 
were standing by his side. 

At the sight of Diana, the prince’s 
countenance cleared up, but it was 
only for a moment, which passed away 
like a gleam of sunshine, between 
two showers. 

Diana approached the duke, and 
the count knit his brows. 

u My lord,” said she, with a 
charming smile, u your Highness is 
said to be very fond of flowers. I 
would show your Highness some of 
the finest in all Anjou.” 

Francis gallantly offered his hand 
u Where are you taking my lord, 
Madame ?” asked Monsoreau, unea- 
sily. 

u To the green-house, sir.” 
u Ha !’’ said Monsoreau. u Well, 
let us to the green-house.” 

u Faith,” said Bussy to himself, 
u it is just as well that I did not kill 
him ! Thank heaven, he will be sure 
to kill himself !” 

Diana smiled at Bussy, and her 
smile promised wonders. 

u Let not Monsieur de Monsoreau 
know,” said she, aside, u that you 
are leaving Anjou, and trust the rest 
to me.” 

u I shall be on my guard,” said 
Bussy. 

And he drew near the prince, while 
Monsoreau’s litter was turning round 
a tree. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


377 


“ My lord,” said he, “ be wary. 
Monsoreau must not know that we in- 
tend to arrange our affairs.” 

“ Why ?” 

u Because he might convey infor- 
mation of our intentions to the 
Queen-mother, in order to make a 
friend of her, and then, Madame 
Catherine, knowing our determina- 
tion, would be less liberal in her 
offers.” 

“ You are right,” said the duke, 
“ I see that you mistrust him.” 
u Monsoreau ? Parbleu /” 
u Well, so do I ! I really believe 
that his death was a feint of his own 
invention.” 

u No, faith ! He was well and 
surely run through and through the 
body. That fool, Remy, who has 
saved him, believed himself, for a mo- 
ment, that he was dead. He must 
positively have his soul riveted to his 
body !” 

The party reached the green-house, 
and Diana continued to put on her 
most engaging smiles. 

O O O 

The prince passed in first, and then 
Diana. Monsoreau would have fol- 
lowed ; but, when his litter was 
brought up to the door, it was found 
to be impossible to get it through. The 
door, of ogival shape, was long and 
high, but not wider than an ordinary 
one, while Monsieur de Monsoreau’s 
litter measured six feet across. 

When made aware of the difficulty, 
Monsoreau was heard to growl in 
anger. 

Bussy, accustomed to read Diana’s 
thoughts with his eyes, and perfectly 
understanding her smile, remarked 
quietly to Monsoreau : 

u It is of no use, Monsieur le 
Comte, the door is too narrow, you 
will never get your litter through.’’ 
u M} lord, my lord,” cried Monso- 
reau, u come out ! The green-house 
is filled with deadly exhalations from 
foreign plants that were sent to us the 
other day, my lord !” 

But Francis was not hearkening ; 
neglecting the precautions which were 
habitual to him, and too happy to 


possess Diana’s hand, he was pursu- 
ing the verdant paths that opened be- 
fore him. 

Bussy exerted himself to calm Mon- 
soreau’s impatience ; but, in spite of 
his exhortations, the result was such 
as might have been expected ; Monso- 
reau broke down, not under physical 
pain — for his body seemed to be 
made of iron — but under mental ago- 
ny. He fainted. 

Remy resumed the duties of his 
office, and directed the patient to be 
taken back to his room. 

u What am I to do now?” said 
Remy to Bussy. 

u Eh, Pardieu /” said Bussy. 
u Finish what you have commenced 
so well. Remain by him and cure 
him.” 

He then informed Diana of her 
husband’s condition. 

Diana immediately left the Duke 
of Anjou, and prepared to return to 
the castle. 

“ Have we succeeded ?” asked 
Bussy, as soon as she came up with 
him. 

u I think so,” said she, u at all 
events, do not go away without seeing 
Gertrude.” 

No sooner had Diana withdrawn, 
than the duke, whose passion for 
flowers was solely dependent on her 
presence, began to feel uneasy about 
the poisonous exhalations, and conse- 
quently hastened from the green- 
house. 

Riberac, Livarot, and Antraguet, 
followed him. 

Meanwhile, Diana had joined her 
husband, whom Remy was endeavor- 
ing to restore to his senses. 

In a few minutes the count opened 
his eyes. 

His first movement was a silent 
attempt to rise up, but Remy had 
foreseen this, and the count was tied 
to his mattrass. 

He groaned and growled ; he turn- 
ed and twisted ; in one of these 
movements his eyes fell upon Diana, 
standing by his pillow. 

u Ha, is that you, Madame ?” said 


373 


DIANA OF MERIDOR: OR 


be, “ I am glad of having an oppor- 
tunity of informing you that we shall 
start this very evening for Paris.” 

u What an idea, sir !” said Diana, 
with her usual calmness. u Think 
of your wound.” 

u Wound or no wound, Madame,” 
said he, u I shall start this evening. 
I care not if I die on the road. I 
had rather die than suffer as I do 
now.” 

u Well, sir,” said Diana, u just as 
you please.” 

u I have said what pleases me ; 
therefore, go and make ready.” 

u 1 shall be soon ready, sir, but, 
may I ask what occasions this sudden 
departure ?” 

“ I shall take an opportunity of 
telling you, Madame, when you will 
have no flowers to show to princes, 
or when I shall have had doors made 
wide enough to allow litters to pass 
through them.” 

Diana bowed. 

u But, Madame,” interposed Re- 

iny. 

u It is the pleasure of Monsieur 
le Comte,” said Diana, u my duty is 
to obey.” 

Remy did not insist further. Di- 
ana motioned to him to be silent. 

He held his tongue, grumbling to 
himself, 

u These people will kill him, and 
then it will be said that it was the 
doctor’s fault.” 

Pending these incidents, the Duke 
of Anjou was preparing to leave 
Meridor. Having expressed his ac- 
knowledgments to the baron for his 
hospitable entertainment, he mounted 
his horse. 

Just at this moment, Gertrude 
made her appearance. She came to 
inform the duke that her mistress, 
being detained near the count, could 
not have the honor of paying her re- 
spects to him, and to whisper to Bus- 
sy that Diana was to start that same 
evening. 

Thus terminated the Duke of An- 
jou’s visit to the castle of Meridor. 

In regard to his Highness’s state 


* 

of mind, it will be sufficient io state 
that while Diana’s cruelty was an in- 
ducement for him to leave Anjou, 
her smile was a bait for him to re- 
main. 

As he was ignorant of the inten- 
tions of the Grand-Huntsman, he 
kept meditating on the way home, on 
the impropriety of yielding w r ith too 
much facility to the suggestions of 
the Queen -mother. 

Bussy was prepared for this vacil- 
lation, and hoped to avail himself 
of it. 

u Look you here, Bussy,” said the 
duke, u I have been thinking.” 

u Well, my lord, what have you 
been thinking ?” asked Bussy. 

u That it will not be wise to yield 
so easily to my mother’s representa- 
tions.” 

u You are perfectly right ; she will 
be apt to take credit to herself for 
having overreached you.” 

u On the other hand, do you see, by 
asking a week for further reflection, 
or by spinning out the business for 
another week, by giving a few enter- 
tainments during that week, to our 
nobility, we shall have an opportunity 
of making a show of our strength and 

C O 

power.” 

u Well reasoned, my lord. Never- 
theless, it seems to me — ” 

u I shall remain here a week 
longer,” said the duke, u and thanks 
to the delay, 1 shall extort new and 
better conditions from my mother. 
Take my word for it.” 

Bussy appeared to be immersed in 
profound thought. 

u Yes, my lord,” said he, u you 
will do to stand out for all you can 
get, but take care not to lose more 
in one direction than you gain in the 
other. The King, for instance — ” 
u Well, the King ?” 
u The King, not knowing your 
ultimate intentions, may get irritated 
— the King is very irritable.” 

u You are right. I must dispatch 
some one to my brother, to bear him 
my respects, and inform him of my 
intended return to his court. This 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


379 


itself will give me the week’s delay I 
have occasion for.” 

“ Yes, but your messenger will run 
great risk.” 

The Duke of Anjou smiled one of 
his wicked smiles. 

“ That is to say, should 1 change 
my intentions ?” said he. 

“ Hey, would you not change, if 
you found it to be to your interest^ 
notwithstanding your promise to your 
brother ?” 

“ Faith !” said the prince. 

“ I know that you would, and in 
that event, your ambassador would 
he sent to the Bastille. ” 

u We can give him a letter without 
informing him of its contents or pur- 
port.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Bussy, 
“ give him a verbal message, and no 
letter.” 

“ Why, I shall not be able to find 
a man to take a verbal message to 
the monarch of France.” 

“Bah!” 

“ Do you know such a man ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Who is he ?” 

“ Myself.” 

“ You ?” 

“ Yes, I. I have a fancy for dif- 
ficult negotiations.” 

“ Bussy, my dear Bussy,” cried 
the duke, “ if you will do this, you 
may count on my eternal gratitude.” 
Bussy smiled : he knew but too 
well the measure of his Highness’s 
gratitude. 

The duke thought that he hesitat- 
ed. 

“ And I will give you ten thousand 
crowns for your journey,” added he. 

“ Oh, my lord,” said Bussy, 
“ think better of me ! Are such ser- 
vices to be paid for ?” 

“ Then you will go ?” 

“ I will £0.” 

“ To Pans?” 

“To Paris.” 

“ When?” 

“ When you please.” 

“ The sooner the better.” 

“ Let it be soon.” 


“ Well ?” 

“ This evening, if you like it, my 
lord.” 

“ Brave Bussy, dear Bussy, then 
you really are consenting ?” 

“Yes, I am consenting,” said 
Bussy ; “ you know well, my lord, 
that to render your Highness a ser- 
vice, I would go through fire and 
water. So, then, it is agreed ; I 
shall start this evening. Meanwhile, 
lead a pleasant life, and endeavor to 
squeeze out of the Queen mother 
some good benefit for your humble 
servant.” 

“ I have been thinking of it, my 
good fellow.” 

“ So, then, adieu, my lord !” 

“ Adieu, Bussy ! Oh, do not for- 
get one thing !” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ To take leave of my mother.” 

“ I shall have that honor.” 

Accordingly, Bussy, gay, active, 
and eager as the boy who has just 
heard the bell ring for his hour of re- 
creation, paid his visit to Madame 
Catherine, and then prepared to be 
ready to start on the instant he should 
receive the word from Meridor. 

He had to wait until the following 
morning : Monsoreau was so much 
weakened by his exertion, bodily and 
mental, that he himself was compel- 
led to admit the propriety of his re- 
maining over the night. 

o o 

But, toward seven o’clock in the 
morning, the same groom who had 
brought Saint-Luc’s letter, came to 
inform Bussy, that, despite the tears 
of the old baron, and Remy’s objec- 
tions, the count had just started for 
Paris, in a litter, escorted b) Diana, 
Remy, and Gertrude, on horseback. 

The litter was carried by eight men, 
who were to be relieved every league. 

The instant he rec dved the news, 
Bussy jumped on his horse, ready 
saddled since the preceding evening, 
and took the same road. 


380 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW KING HENRY III. RECEIVED MON- 
SIEUR DE SAINT-LUC, ON HIS AP- 
PEARANCE AT COURT. 

Ever since Catherine’s departure, 
the King, whatever confidence he 
placed in the ambassador he had sent 
to Anjou, the King, we say, was busy 
in making preparations to take the 
field against his brother. 

He knew by experience the ambi- 
tious nature of his family, and he 
knew all that a pretender to the 
crown, that is to say, a new man, 
could effect against the legitimate 
possessor, that is to say, against the; 
man of whom all men are tired, be- 
cause all men understand him. 

He amused himself, or rather, he 
wearied himself, like Tiberius, in 
drawing up with Chicot his lists of 
proscription, in which he set down, in 
alphabetical order, the names of all 
who were exhibiting a want of zeal in 
coming forward to side with him. 

These lists were every day becom- 
ing longer. 

And at the letters S and L, that is 
to say, twice, instead of once, the 
King, each day, wrote down the name 
of Monsieur de Saint-Luc. 

For the rest, the King’s anger 
against his former favorite was well 
served by the perfidious remarks of 
the courtiers on the flight to Anjou, 
a flight which, by their arguments, 
was construed into treason, from the 
moment that the duke himself had 
taken his residence in the province. 

And, in fact, was not Saint-Luc, 
residing at Meridor, to be regarded 
as the Duke of Anjou’s harbinger, 
preceding his master to prepare for 
his master’s reception ? 

Amid all this confusion and specu- 
lation, as to men and motives, Chi- 
cot, exhorting the minions to sharpen 
their daggers and rapiers, that they 
might he ready to cut and thrust at 
the enemies of his most Christian 
Majesty, Chicot, we say, was very 
sublime. 


And all the more sublime, foras- 
much that while he appeared to be 
acting the part of the horse-fly, teas- 
ing and worrying, Chicot, in reality, 
was seriously employed. Little by 
little, and as it were, man by man, 
Chicot was organizing an army for his 
master’s service. 

In this posture of affairs, one after- 
noon, while the King was supping 
with the Queen, whose society his 
Majesty always assiduously cultivat- 
ed on the approach of danger, and 
with whom, indeed, the absence of 
Francis naturally rendered him more 
intimate, Chicot appeared before 
him, with his arms and legs spread 
out like a dancing-jack. 
u Pho !” said he. 

“ What?” asked the King. 
u Monsieur de Saint-Luc,” said 
Chicot. 

u Monsieur de Saint-Luc !” ex- 
claimed Henry. 

“ Yes.” 

“ At Paris ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u At the Louvre ?” 

“ Yes.” 

This thrice repeated affirmation 
caused the King to rise from his chair ; 
he was red in the face, and trembling 
in every limb. 

It would have been difficult to say 
what sentiment was agitating him. 

u Pardon me,” said he to the Queen, 
wiping his moustaches, and throwing 
his napkin on the chair, u but these 
are matters of state, with which wo- 
men have no concern.’’ 

u Yes,” said Chicot, raising his 
voice, u these are matters of state.” 
The Queen was rising from the ta- 
ble to leave the room. 

u No, Madame,” said Henry, u re- 
main if you please : I shall retire to 
my cabinet.” 

u Oh, Sire,” said the Queen, with 
that tender interest which she always 
manifested toward her ungrateful 
spouse,” do not put yourself in a pas- 
sion, 1 entreat you.” 

u Heaven grant that I may not !” 
said Henry, without remarking the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


381 


sly fashion in which Chicot was twist- | 
ing his moustaches. 

Henry rushed impetuously out of 
the room ; Chicot followed him. 

Once outside : 

a What brings the traitor hither ?” 
asked Henry, in an altered voice. 
u Who knows said Chicot. 
u I am convinced that he comes de- 
puted by the States of Anjou. He 
comes as an ambassador from my bro- 
ther ; for such is the course of rebel- 
lion ! In its troubled and muddy wa- 
ters, bad subjects fish for all sorts of 
advantages, base and sordid it is true, 
but real, nevertheless, and, if there be 
any such advantages which they al- 
ready enjoy, but in a temporary and 
precarious form, they seek to render 
them fixed and permanent. This 
emissary had before these events a 
touch of rebellion about him, and he 
now avails himself of them to ccrme 
hereto insult me, under the protec- 
tion of a safe-conduct.” 

u Who knows ?” said Chicot. 

The King looked at his laconic in- 
terlocutor. 

u Again, it may be,” said Henry, 
as he traversed the galleries with un- 
equal steps, a circumstance that indi- 
cated the agitation of his mind — u it 
may be, that he comes to ask me to 
give him back his lands, the revenues 
of which I withhold him — a proceed- 
ing which, I grant you, is a little abu- 
sive — as he can pretend that he has 
committed no distinct crime — 
ahem ?” 

u Who knows,” repeated Chicot. 
u Here you keep repeating, like my 
popinjay, always the same thing !” 
said Henry. u ’Sdeath, have you 
nothing else to say but your eternal 
— ‘ Who knows ?’ ” 

u Oh, Mordieu , and dost thou 
think thou art so very amusing with 
thy eternal questions ?” 

u Make some answer, can you 
not?” 

u What would’st thou have me an- 
swer ? Dost thou take me, perad- 
venture, for the Fatum of the an- 
cients — c'ost thou take me for Jupi- 


ter, for Apollo, or for Manto ? Why, 
hang it, it is thou that art boring me 
with thy ridiculous suppositions !” 
u Monsieur Chicot !’’ 
u What next, Monsieur Henri ?” 
u Chicot, my dear fellow, you wit- 
ness my grief, and refuse me your 
sympathy !” 

u Then, get rid of your grief.” 
u Every one betrays and forsakes 
me !” 

u Who knows — -udsbuddikins, who 
knows ?” 

Henry, lost in conjecture, went 
down to his cabinet, where, in conse- 
quence of the news of Saint-Luc’s ar- 
rival having spread, he found assem- 
bled his intimate companions, among 
whom, or rather at the head of whom, 
was Crillon, his eye sparkling, his 
nose crimsoned, and his moustaches 
erect, like a mastitf, eager for the fight. 

Saint-Luc was there, standing in 
the centre of the threatening crowd, 
hearing their muttered exclamations 
of hostility, and yet perfectly calm 
and unruffled. Strange to say, he 
had brought his wife ! She was seat- 
ed on a stool over against the balus- 
trade of the bed. 

Saint-Luc, with his hand resting 
on his hip, surveyed his enemies and 
returned look for look. 

Some of the lords, out of respect to 
the countess, stood aside, and were 
silent lookers-on, although, had she 
not been there, they would have join- 
ed with the rest. 

Such was the disagreeable position 
of a quondam royal favorite. 

Joan, modestly wrapped in her tra- 
velling dress, awaited the result, with 
downcast eyes. 

Saint Luc’s attitude, as he st^od 
with his cloak thrown back, was prc^d, 
haughty, and self-confident. And 
many were prepared to go beyond the 
limits of forbearance, as soon as they 
should ascertain Saint-Luc’s object in 
re-appearing at court. Meanwhile, 
ambitious of sharing the favor he bar. 
once enjoyed, all united in regarding 
him with feelings of malice and jea- 
lousy. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


3*2 

In a word, expectation was at its 
height when the King appeared. 

Henry entered, bustling and agitat- 
ed : for the most part, what is called 
the dignity of princes, is composed of 
perpetual fuss and excitement. 

Chicot followed, calm and serene, 
as should have been the King of 
France : he began by taking note of 
Saint-Luc's bearing, as should have 
done Henry the King. 

u Ha, sir, so you are here !” began 
the King, without paying attention to 
the surrounding objects : thus, the 
bull in the Spanish circus notes not 
the thousands of spectators : he sees 
only a moving mist, and in the rain- 
bows on the banners *he only sees the 
red color. 

u Yes, Sire,” said Saint-Luc 
modestly, and bowing respectfully. 

So little did the perfect propriety 
of this answer strike the King — so 
little did this calm and deferential 
bearing awaken in his prejudiced 
mind those feelings of respect and 
urbanity which should proceed as 
well from respect to others, as to 
oneself, that he continued with a spe- 
cies of vehemence : 

u Truly your presence at the Lou- 
vre surprises me much.” 

All was hushed as soon as this 
coarse remark fell from the lips of 
the King. 

It was like the silence which pre- 
vails round the lists when two foes 
are met to decide some deadly quarrel. 
Saint-Luc was the first to break it. 
“Sire,” said he, with his habitual 
elegance of manners, and without ap- 
pearing in the least disconcerted by 
the royal displeasure, u I am only 
surprised at one thing, which is, that 
seeing the position of affairs, your 
Majesty did not expect me.” 

u What do you mean, sir ?” said 
Henry, with an air of pride truly 
royal, raising that head, which, on 
important occasions, was capable of 
assuming an expression of incompara- 
ble dignity. 

“ Sire, your Majesty is in danger,” 
replied Saint-Luc. 


“ Danger !” repeated the courtier*. 
“ Yes, gentlemen, danger, great, 
real, and serious — a danger in which 
the King will need the assistance of 
all, from the highest to the lowest of 
his devoted followers. Convinced 
that when such danger threatens, the 
weakest help may be useful, I am 
here to place at the feet of my King 
the offer of my humble services.” 
u Ha, ha,” said Chicot, u you see 
now, my son, how right I was to ask, 
c who knows ?’ ” 

Henry III. made no reply on the 
spot — he looked round at the assem- 
bly — the assembly was agitated, and 
Henry soon discerned the jealous 
feelings which existed in the hearts 
of nearly all present. 

He concluded that Saint-Luc had 
done something of which the majority 
were incapable, that is to say, some- 
thing superior in its way. 

Nevertheless, he still dissembled. 
u You have only done your duty, 
sir,” he replied, u for we have & right 
to claim your services.” 

u The King has a right, I know, to 
claim the services of all his subjects,” 
resumed Saint-Luc, u but in these 
times, it is not rare to meet with 
people reluctant to pay their debts. 
I am here, Sire, to pay mine, and I 
hope that now and hereafter, your 
Majesty will always look upon me as 
one of your Majesty’s debtors.” 
Henry, disarmed by this gentle 
bearing and persevering humility, 
advanced a step toward Saint-Luc. 

u And so,” said he, “ you come 
back without any other motive than 
the one you have mentioned — you 
have come without message or safe- 
conduct ?” 

“ Sire,” said Saint-Luc, ' 
and seeing by the change 
King’s tone, that all ange 
parted, “ I have come b 
and simply for the sake 
back, and believe me, t 
ridden, as it were, for lifi 
Your Majesty may, if o’ ; .. 
cast me into the Bastill 
and have me shot in tw' 


i 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAo 


383 


have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is 
up, Touraine will follow, and so will 
Guyenne. My lord the Duke of 
Anjou controls the west and the 
south of France.’ 7 

u He works with plenty of help, I 
suppose,” cried the King. 

“ Sire,” said Saint-Luc, who saw 
the drift of the royal questioner, u no 
advice, no representations, can turn 
the duke from his purpose ; and 
Monsieur de Bussy, with all his in- 
fluence, finds it impossible to calm 
the duke’s terror of your Majesty’s 
anger.” 

u Ha, ha,” said Henry, “ and so 
the rebel trembles, does he ?” 

And he smiled through his mous- 
taches. 

u Odsbud !” said Chicot, smoothing 
down his chin, u this is a knowing 
fellow.” 

And pushing the King aside with 
Lis elbow, 

u Stand out of my way, Henry,” 
said he, u let me go and shake hands 
with Monsieur de Saint-Luc.” 

This move on the part of Chicot 
decided the King’s course. He al- 
lowed Chicot to pay his compliment 
to the stranger, and then going up 
slowly to his old friend, and placing 
his hand on his shoulder : 

u Saint-Luc, you are welcome 
back,” said he. 

u Ah, Sire,” cried Saiat-Luc, kiss- 
ing the King’s hand, u you are still 
my much beloved master.” 

u Yes, but you are not the same,” 
said the King, u for really, you are 
grown so thin, my poor Saint-Luc, 
that I should not have know r n you.” 
To this remark, a woman’s voice 
replied : 

u Sire, it all is from grief for hav- 
ing displeased your Majesty.” 

Although the voice was soft and 
respectful, Henry shuddered. It was 
as antipathetical to him as was to 
Augustus the sound of the trumpet. 

u Madame de Saint-Luc,” mur- 
mured Henry, u ah, true, I had for- 
gotten. ” 

Joan threw herself on her knees. 


u Rise, Madame,” said the King, 
u I am pleased with everything that 
bears the name of Saint-Luc.” 

Joan seized the King’s hand, and 
raised it to lip s r - 

Henry withdrew it abruptly. 
u Keep it up,” said Chicot, to the 
countess, u keep it up, try and make 
a convert of the King ! Odsbuddi- 
kins, you are pretty enough to suc- 
ceed.” 

But Henry turned his back upon 
Joan, an»d passing his arm round 
Saint-Luc’s neck, retired with him to 
his private apartments. 

u We are at peace, Saint-Luc,” 
said he to him. 

u Say rather, Sire,” replied the 
courtier, u that I have obtained my 
pardon.” 

u Madame,” said Chicot to Joan, 
who appeared undecided as to what to 
do, u a good wife should never leave 
her husband’s side — especially when 
he is in danger.” 

And he pushed Joan on the heels 
of the King and Saint-Luc 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WHICH TREATS OF TWO IMPORTANT 
CHARACTERS BELONGING TO THIS 
HISTORY, AND WHO HAVE BEEN FOR 
SOME TIME LOST SIGHT OF BY THE 
READER ■ 

There is one character belonging to 
this history — indeed, it may be said 
that there are two — of whose words 
and actions the reader has a right to 
be informed. 

With all the humility of an author 
of olden time, we shall in a few pre- 
fatory remarks convey the informa- 
tion needed. 

In the first place it concerns us to 
speak of a certain monk of huge as- 
pect, with shaggy eyebrows, with 
thick and blood-colored lips, with 
large hands and broad shoulders 




DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


whose neck is daily growing shorter 
in proportion as his belly and cheeks 
grow bigger. 

In the next place, it concerns us to 
speak of a well-sized donkey, whose 
sides are growing rounder and grace- 
fully shaky. 

The monk tends daily to become 
more and more like a tun, resting upon 
two sticks. 

The donkey already resembles a 
child’s cradle resting on four distaffs. 

The one dwells in a ceil in the 
convent of Saint-Genevieve, where 
he enjoys the fulness of heavenly 
grace. 

The other inhabits the stable of the 
said convent, eating daily his belly- 
ful from a rack that is never empty. 

The one answers to the name of 
Gorenflot. 

The other ought to answer to the 
name of Panurge. 

Both are enjoying, for the present 
at least, the most satisfactory state of 
existence that monk or donkey ever 
dreamed of. The Genovefins treat 
their illustrious companion with all 
manner of care, and like the Olym- 
pian divinities of the third order, who 
waited on the eagle of Jupiter, the 
peacock of Juno, and the doves of 
Venus, the lay-brothers do their best 
to fatten Panurge in honor of his mas- 
ter. 

The fires of the abbey kitchen are 
never extinguished : wines from the 
most celebrated vineyards of Burgun- 
dy sparkle in the largest brimmers. 
Occasionally there arrives at the con- 
vent a missionary who has been tra- 
velling in distant lands for the pro- 
pagation of the faith : at other times, 
there arrives a secret legate from the 
Pope, bearing with him His Holiness’ 
dispensations, vouchsafed to the con- 
vent : missionary or legate, the stran- 
ger is invited to admire brother Go- 
renflot, the model of the church mili- 
tant, distinguished like St. Luke, in 
the pulpit, and like St. Paul, in a 
passage at arms. Gorenflot is exhi- 
bited in all his glory, that is to say, 
at some wide-spread feast : a table 


has been fashioned expressly to suit 
Gorenflot’s prominence, and the holy 
fathers do not fail to point out with 
noble pride that Gorenflot devours 
for his single share the rations of 
eight of the most robust inmates of 
their convent. 

And when the pious stranger has 
sufficiently contemplated the wonder : 

u How admirably constituted !” 
will the prior exclaim, folding his 
hands and raising his eyes to heaven. 
u Brother Gorenflot is distinguished 
in every capacity : you see how he 
eats ! Oh, if you could have heard 
the sermon which he delivered on a 
certain night — a sermon in which he 
offered to sacrifice himself for the tri- 
umph of the faith ’ Verily, he pos- 
sesses a mouth that can speak like St 
John’s and swallow like Gargan- 
tua’s !” 

Nevertheless, it will sometimes 
happen that, in the midst of all these 
splendors, a cloud will pass over Go- 
renflot’s brow, and on such occasions 
fowls from Mans smoke in vain un- 
der his huge nostrils, delicate Flemish 
oysters, of which he makes nothing of 
swallowing a thousand, gape and 
twist in vain in their pearly shells, 
bottles of various shapes, though un- 
corked, remain untouched : Gorenflot 
is not hungry, Gorenflot dreams ! 

Then it is bruited that the worthy 
Genovefin is in ecstacy like St. Fran- 
cis, or rapt like St. Theresa. More 
than ever is Gorenflot an object of 
admiration. 

He is no longer a monk, he is a 
saint ; he is even more than a saint, 
he is a demi-god, and even some go 
so far as to say that he is a god. 

Gorenflot will raise his head and 
stare vacantly at the prior. 

He has been in another world. 

u What were you doing, worthy 
brother ?” the prior will ask. 

u I !” savs Gorenflot. 

1/ 

u Yes, you : you were doing some- 
thing.” 

Yes, father, I was composing a ser 
mon.” 

u In the style of the one you deli 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


385 


ered on the night of the Holy | 

League ?” 

o 

Every time he hears that sermon 
alluded to, Gorenflot deplores his in- 
firmity. 

u Yes,” he will say, heaving a 
deep sigh, u in the same style. Ah, 
what a pity I did not write that one 
down ?” 

u What need a man like you care 
for writing, my dear brother? You 
speak from inspiration ; you open your 
lips, and as the holy word is in you, 
the holy word is sure to be spoken.” 

u Do you think so ?” says Goren- 
flot. 

u Happy is he who doubts !” says 
the prior. 

In truth, from time to time, Goren- 
flot, who is aware of the necessities of 
his position, pledged, as it were, to 
follow up his famous performance, 
dreams of composing another sermon. 
A new age of eloquence, surpassing 
the ages of Homer, Tullius and Cae- 
sar, and of Saint Gregory, Saint Au- 
gustine and Saint Jerome, shall date 
from Gorenflot. J Rerum novus o r do 
nascitur. 

Also, from time to time, at the end 
of a repast, or in the middle of an 
ecstasy, Gorenflot will rise from his 
chair, and, as if led by some invisible 
guide, will go straight to the stable ; 
once there, he delights in contemplat- 
ing Panurge, and Panurge expresses 
his satisfaction by braying, then he 
will smoothe down his sleek coat, and 
his fingers will disappear in his thick 
mane. Oh, then, it is more than sat- 
isfaction, Panurge feels it is positive 
felicity ; he does more than bray, he 
gambols ! 

The prior and three or four dignita- 
ries of the convent, generally escort 
him on such excursions, and exert 
themselves to contribute to Panurge’s 
amusement : one will offer him cakes, 
another biscuits, just as it is related 
suitors for the good-will of Pluto, 
used to offer cakes of honey to Cerbe- 
rus. 

Panurge is enduring ; he is of an 
easy disposition, besides, as he is not 


subject to ecstasies — and as he has no 
sermons to compose — as he has no 
reputation to sustain, unless it be a 
reputation for obstinacy, idleness and 
gluttony — Panurge considers that 

nothing is left for him to wish for, 
and that he is the happiest of don- 
keys. 

The prior will look at him with 
emotion, and exclaim : 

“ Simplicity and gentleness — the 
virtues of the strong !” 

Gorenflot has learned that the Latin 
for yes is ita : this knowledge is of 
wonderful use to him, and whenever 
he desires to be brief in his re- 
plies, he says ita , and always finds it 
to answer his purpose. 

Encouraged by this invariable as- 
sent by Gorenflot to every proposi- 
tion, the abbot will venture to say to 
him : 

u You work too hard, my dear 
brother, it makes you melancholy.” 
And Gorenflot will make answer to 
Messire Joseph Foulon, as Chicot 
occasionally makes answer to his Ma- 
jesty King Henry III. 
u Who knows ?” 

u Perhaps our table is not well 
kept,’’ adds the prior, u do you wish 
us to change our cook ? Y ou know, 
my dear brother, Quadam saturations 
minus succedunt .” 

u Ita ,” replies Gorenflot, caressing 
his donkey. 

u You are very fond of Panurge, 
brother,” says the prior, u would you 
like to go abroad again ?” 

u Oh !” ejaculates Gorenflot, with 
a deep sigh. 

The fact is the prior’s allusion 
touches the right spot. Gorenflot, 
who at first regarded his exile as an 
intolerable misfortune, came to bb 
acquainted, while it lasted, with the 
endless, and to him until then un- 
known, joys of which liberty is the 
source. And now, in the midst of 
his happiness, a worm is gnawing at 
his heart ; he wants liberty — liberty 
with Chicot, the boon companion— 
with Chicot to whom he is attached, 
he knows not why, unless, indeed, it 


386 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


be because Chicot was in the habit of 
beating him. 

u Alas,” will say some monk, who 
has been watching the play of Go- 
renflot\s features, u I believe that 
you are right, reverend prior ! His 
confinement to the convent wearies 
him.” 

u Not exactly,” says Gorenflot, 
u but I feel that I was intended for a 
life of action, for preaching at corners 
and by the high-ways.” 

And as he utters these words, Go- 
renflot’s eyes become animated ; he 
thinks of Chicot’s omelets, of the 
Anjou wine, of Master Claude Bon- 
hommet, and of the snug parlor at 
the Corne d’Abondance. 

Ever since the soiree of the 
League, or rather, ever since the 
morning following the day of his re- 
turn to the convent, he had not been 
permitted to go abroad. The Leag- 
uers have become extremely prudent, 
ever since the King has declared him- 
self chief of the League. 

Gorenflot is so simple, that he has 
made no attempt to pass the gate of 
his prison. He was told — u Brother, 
you are forbidden to go abroad” — 
and accordingly, he has remained at 
home. 

No one suspected the existence of 
cravings for a visit to the other world. 

But, seeing his melancholy increase 
from day to day, the prior said to 
him one morning : 

u Dearly beloved brother, no man 
should go against his vocation ; your’s 
is to do battle for the faith among 
the children of men ; go forth, then, 
and fulfil the mission confided to you 
by the Lord ; only, take good care of 
your health, and be back for the great 
day.” 

u What great day?” asked the de- 
lighted Gorenflot. 

u For Corpus-Christi. ” 
u Ita ,” said Gorenflot, with an air 
of acquiescence, u but,” added he, 
u in order that I may help inspiration 
by bestowing alms, give me some 
money.” 

The prior hastened to produce a 


large purse, which he tendered open 
to Gorenflot. Gorenflot plunged his 
hand into it. 

“ You will see what I shall bring 
back to the convent,” said he, emp- 
tying into the large pocket of his 
gown the money which he had bor- 
rowed from the prior’s purse. 

u You have your text, I hope, be- 
loved brother,” asked Joseph Foulon. 
u Yes, certainly.” 
u Tell me what it is.” 
u Willingly, but you must not re- 
peat it.” 

The prior drew near Gorenflot, and 
lent an attentive ear. 
u Hearken.” 
u I am hearkening.” 
u The flail which threshes corn, 
threshes itself,” said Gorenflot. 

u Oh, magnificent — oh, sublime!” 
cried the prior. 

The bystanders, relying on the wise 
appreciation of Master Joseph Foulon, 
repeated after him — u Oh, magnifi- 
cent — oh, sublime ! ” 

u And now, father, am I at liberty 
to go?” asked Gorenflot, with humi- 
lity. 

u Yes, my son,” cried the reverend 
abbot, u go and walk in the way of 
the Lord.” 

Gorenflot had Panurge saddled, 
mounted him with the assistance of 
two lusty monks, and went forth from 
the convent at about two o’clock in 
the afternoon. 

On the same day, Saint-Luc had 
arrived from Meridor. The news he 

4 

brought from Anjou was creating no 
little stir in Paris. 

Gorenflot, after following the Rue 
Saint-Esprit, had just turned to the 
left and was passing the Jacobins, 
when he felt Panurge give a sudden 
start : a vigorous hand had clapped 
him on the crupper. 

u Who is that ? ” cried the alarm- 
ed Gorenflot. 

u Friend,” replied a voice which 
the monk thought he recognized. 

Gorenflot would have been glad to 
turn round ; but, like a sailor, who, 
after a long stay ashore, requires ta 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


387 


be accustomed to the roll of his ship, ] 
every time Gorenflot mounted his 
donkey, it took him some time to de- 
termine his centre of gravity. 

u What do you want ? ” said he. 
u Would you have the kindness, 
worthy brother,” resumed the voice, 
u to show me the way to the Come 
d’Abondance?” 

u Morbleu ,” cried Gorenflot, de- 
lighted beyond measure, u it is Mon- 
sieur Chicot himself ! ” 

u Exactly so,” replied the Gascon ; 
u I was just going to call upon you at 
the convent, dearly beloved brother, 
when I saw you issue forth. I have 
followed you some distance to find a 
fit place to accost you without com- 
promising myself. W e are here un- 
observed,- and therefore lean speak 
to you. How are you, frockling ? 
Udsbuddikinsj how thin you have 
grown ! ” 

u And you have grown fat, Mon- 
sieur Chicot, upon my honor.” 

u I am afraid we are flattering each 
other.” 

“ But what have you got there, 
Monsieur Chicot t ” said the monk ; 
u anything good ? ” 

u A saddle of venison I have been 
stealing from his Majesty,” said the 
Gascon: u it will make capital 

steaks.” 

u Dear Monsieur Chicot,” cried 
the monk, u and under the other 
arm ? ” 

u A flagon of Cyprus wine, sent by 
a king to my king.” 
u Let me look at it.” 
u The wine is mine, and mine to 
share. How do you like the looks of 
it, brother monk ? ” said Chicot, 
throwing aside his cloak. 

Oh, oh ! ” cried Gorenflot as 
soon as he caught a sight of the se- 
cond wind-fall. u Oh, oh !” he cried, 
shaking so as to make Panurge stag- 
ger under him. 

In his excessive joy, the monk rais- 
ed his hands to heaven, and with a 
voice, which shook the windows of the 
adjoining houses, he sang, with a 
braying accompaniment by Panurge : 


We know the juice is famous, 

Which from thy grape is prest, 

Come then, a flagon give us, 

Good Chicot, of thy best. 

It was the first time Gorenflot had 
sung for more than a month. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HOW MONSIEUR DE MONSOREAU TRA- 
VELLED IN' HIS LITTER. 

Let us leave the two friends at the 
Corne d’Abondance, where, it will 
be recollected, Chicot never took the 

monk without serious intentions, and 

/ 

return to Monsieur de Monsoreau, 
wending his way to Paris, in his lit- 
ter, and to Bussy, who had started 
from Angers with the intention of tra- 
velling the same road. 

Not only is it not difficult for a 
well mounted horseman to overtake 
people who are travelling on foot, but 
he also runs a risk — that of passing 
them. 

' The thing occurred to Bussy. 

The end of the month of May wa 
close at hand, and the heat was ex- 
cessive, especially at noon. Accord- 
ingly, Monsieur de Monsoreau had 
ordered a halt in a small wood by the 
road-side ; and, as he was desirous of 
concealing his departure as long as 
possible from the Duke of Anjou, he 
took care, while waiting in the shade, 
to keep all his attendants about him 
and within sight. One horse was la- 
den with provisions, so that a colla- 
tion was provided without having re- 
course to strangers. 

During the halt Bussy passed. 

But, as may be imagined, Bussy 
had not travelled without inquiring 
•of people if they had seen horses, 
horsemen, and a litter carried by ser- 
vants. 

At the village of Durtal he had 
acquired the most positive and satis- 
factory information. Consequently, 


388 


DIANA OF ME RID OR ; OR, 


convinced that Diana preceded him, 
he put his horse to a walk, rising in 
his stirrups at the top of every hill, 
in the hope of catching a glimpse of 
the party he was in pursuit of. But, 
contrary to his expectation, his in- 
formation seemed to lead him astray. 
Travellers coming from an opposite 
direction had not met the party, and 
when he had reached the outskirts of 
La Fleche, he became convinced that 
instead of being in the rear, he was 
in advance, and that instead of fol- 
lowing he was going before. 

He then recollected the grove he 
had passed on the road, and was able 
to account for the neighing of his 
steed, whose smoking nostrils had in- 
formed him of the vicinity of his kind. 

His decision was instantly formed ; 
he stopped at the most insignificant 
tavern, and after seeing his horse well 
provided for, less regardful of him- 
self than of the animal, whose servi- 
ces he might have occasion .for, he 
placed himself at a window, taking 
care to conceal his person behind 
a shred of cloth that served as a cur- 
tain. 

In selecting that particular tavern, 
Bussy had taken its position into spe- 
cial consideration; for it faced the 
best hostelrie in the town, where it 
was to be presumed Monsoreau 
would put up. 

Bussy was right in his conjecture. 
Toward four o’clock in the afternoon, 
a courier halted at the gate of the 
hostelrie. 

Half an hour afterward came the 
litter and its escort. 

The principal persons were, as has 
been stated, the count, the countess, 
Remy, and Gertrude. 

Beside these, there were the peas- 
ants, who were relieved every half 
hour. 

It was the courier’s office to have 
the relays ready at each post. Now, 
as Monsoreau was too jealous not to 
be generous, this mode of travelling, 
however novel, suffered neither delay 
nor difficulty. 

The travellers entered the hostel* 


rie, one after the other ; Diana en- 
tered last, and it seemed to Bussy 
that she cast about her uneasy glan- 
ces. His first impulse was to show 
himself, but to this impulse he was 
prudent enough not to yield : an act 
of imprudence, at that juncture, 
would have ruined all. 

Night came on, and then Bussy 
hoped that Remy would leave the 
hostelrie, or that Diana would show 
herself at one of the windows. Ac- 
cordingly, he wrapped himself in his 
cloak, and stationed himself in the 
street. 

He waited thus until nine o’clock 
in the evening : at nine o’clock the 
courier came out. 

Five minutes after, eight men went 
up to the gate, and four entered. * 

u Ho, ho,” said Bussy to himself, 
a they are going to travel by night! 
An excellent idea, Monsieur de Mon- 
soreau !” 

There were many circumstances to 
render this conjecture probable; the 
night was mild, the heavens were 
starry, and a gentle breeze, laden 
with flowery perfumes, refreshed the 
atmosphere. 

The litter issued forth first. 

Next came Diana, Remy, and Ger- 
trude, on horseback. 

Again did Diana anxiously look 
round, but as she looked the count 
called, and she was compelled to join 
him. 

Four men of the relay lit torches, 
and distributed themselves equally 
on both sides of the litter. 

u Well done !” said Bussy to him- 
self, u had I myself regulated the 
details of this march, I could not 
have done better.” 

And he went and saddled his horse, 

i 

and rode after the litter. 

It was now impossible for him to 
go astray, or even to lose sight of his 
party : the torches were his unerring 
guides. 

Monsoreau kept Diana close by his 
side. 

He conversed with her, or rather, 
scclied her. The visit to the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


389 


g« een-house was an inexhaustible 
topic for bitter and malicious ques- 
tioning. 

Remy and Gertrude were pouting 
at each other, or rather Remy was 
lost in reverie, and Gertrude was 
pouting at him. 

The reason of this pouting was 
manifest. Diana being in love with 
Bussy, Remy had ceased to see the 
necessity for his being in love with 
Gertrude. 

Thus, they kept advancing, some 
quarrelling and others pouting, when 
Bussy — who was following the caval- 
cade at a sufficient distance not to be 
seen — in order to inform Remy of his 
vicinity, applied his lips to a small 
silver whistle with which he was in the 
habit of calling the servants of his 
hotel in the Rue de Grenelle Saint- 
Honore. 

The sound it emitted was sharp and 
piercing. It would be heard from 
one end of the house to the other, 
and would rouse men and animals. 

We say men and animals, because 
Bussy, like all men of might, had a 
passion for training dogs, breaking 
horses, and taming wild falcons. 

And at the sound of that whistle, 
the dogs would start in their kennels, 
the horses in their stables, and the 
falcons on their roosts. 

Remy recognized it on the instant. 
Diana gave a start, and looked at the 
leech, who motioned with his head. 

Then he pulled up by her side, and 
whispered. 
u It is he.” 

u What is that ?” asked Monso- 
reau, u and who is speaking to you, 
Madame ?” 

u To me ? No one, sir.” 
u Yes, but there was : a shadow 
passed near you, 1 heard a voice.” 
u The voice was Monsieur Remy’s,” 
said Diana. u Are you jealous of 
Monsieur Remy, too ?” 

* No, but 1 should like to hear you 
talk loud; it will occupy my mind.” 
u There are certain matters that 
cannot be discussed in the hearing of 


Monsieur le Comte,” said Gertrude, 
coming to her mistress’s assistance. 

“ Why so ?” 
u For two reasons.” 
u The first is, because there are 
matters that do not concern Monsieur 
le Comte, and the second is, that 
there are others which concern him 
much.” 

u And to which class did the mat- 
ter communicated just now to Madame 
by Monsieur Remy, belong?” 

u To the class of those that con- 
cern Monsieur le Comte much.” 
u What was Remy saying to you, 
Madame ? — I desire to know it.” 
u I was saying, Monsieur le Comte, 
that if you will not keep quiet, you 
will be a dead man before you have 
made a third of the journey.” 

By the flickering torch-light, Mon- 
soreau’s face was seen to turn as pale 
as that of a corpse. 

Diana, thoughtful and palpitating, 
was silent. 

u He waits for you in the rear,” 
said Remy to Diana, in a voice scarce- 
ly audible : u slacken your pace a lit- 
tle, and he will come up with you.” 
Remy spoke so low, that Monsoreau 
could only hear an indistinct mur- 
mur : he made an effort to throw 
back his head, and saw Diana follow- 
ing close behind. 

u Move in that way again, sir,” 
said Remy, u and I will not answer 
for the consequences.” 

For some time past, Diana had 
been gradually acquiring courage. 
She became venturesome in proportion 
as her passion obtained dominion over 
her, and thus it is generally with wo- 
men that are really smitten. She 
turned her horse and waited. 

Remy alighted from his horse, and 
giving the bridle to Gertrude, sta- 
tioned himself by the side of the lit- 
ter to occupy his patient’s attention. 

u Let me feel your pulse,” said he. 
u I would wager that you have 
fever.” 

In five seconds, Bussy was at Di- 
ana’s side. 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


3D0 

They had no occasion to speak to 
understand each other. They tender- 
ly and silently embraced. 

u Yea see,” said Bussy, who was 
the first to speak, u here I am !” 

u Oh, how happy will my days be, | 
how happy my nights, if I know, 
Bussy, if I know that you are always 
near me, as you are now !” 
u By day, lie can see us !” 
u No : do you follow us, and I 

alone will see you, Louis. At the 
turns of the road and at the tops of 
the hills, the plume of your cap — the 
lace on your cloak — your waving 
handkerchief — all will speak to me in 
your name, and speak to me of love. 
And, when the sun goes down — when 
misty vapors begin to overshadow 
the plain, let me only see your dear 
familiar form salute me, and send me 
an evening farewell, and I shall be 
happy, very happy 

u Speak, speak on, my beloved 
Diana ; thou canst not thyself know 
what melody exists in thy voice !” 
u And, when we shall *ravel by 
night — and that will be often, for 
Remy has told him that the cool air 
is good for his wound — when we shall 
travel by night, I shall loiter behind, 
from time to time, as I do this eve- 
ning — from time to time, I shall be 
able to press you in these arms, and 
to tell you in a few words all that I 
thought of you, during the day.” 
u Oh, how I love thee — how I love 
thee !” murmured Bussy. 

u You must know,” resumed Dia- 
na, u that I believe that such is the 
union of our hearts, that even at a 
distance from each other — even with- 
out speaking to each other, we can be 
happy through thought alone.” 

u Oh, yes — but still, to see thee — 
to embrace thee ! Oh, Diana, Diana !” 
And the two horses jostled each 
other, and played with each other, and 
shook their silvered bridles, while the 
two lovers forgot that there was a 
world. 

Suddenly, a voice rang in their 
ears, and made them both start — Di- 
ana from fear, Bussy from anger. 


u Madame Diana,” cried the voice 
— u Madame Diana, where are you r” 
The cry passed through the ail 
like a funeral invocation. 

u Oh, it is he — it is he ! I had 
i forgotten him,” murmured Diana. 
u It is he ! I was in a dream ! Oh, 
sweet dream — Oh, frightful reality !” 
u Listen, Diana,” cried Bussy — • 
u listen, Diana! We are now to- 
gether ; say but a word, and no earth- 
ly power shall separate us. Diana, 
let us fly. What is there to intercept 
our flight ? See ! Before us, infinite 
space : happiness, liberty, freedom ! 
Say but a word, and we are free — say 
but a word, and thou art lost to him, 
but gained to me eternally!” 

And Bussy gently detained her. 
u And my father?” said Diana 
u When he shall be told that I love 
thee !” murmured Bussy. 

u Oh,” said Diana, u a father, what 
say you, what mean you ?” 

Those few words at once brought 
Bussy to his senses. 

u Nothing by violence, dearest 
Diana; command, and 1 will obey.” 
u Listen,” said Diana, stretching 
abroad her hand, u our destiny is there. 
Let us be stronger than the demon 
who persecutes us ; fear nothing, and 
you shall see if I know how to love.” 
u We must part, then, oh, Mon 
Dieu /” murmured Bussy. 

u Countess, countess !” tcried the 
voice. u Answer, or should it kill me, 
I will leap out of this infernal litter.” 
u Adieu,” said Diana, u adieu, he 
will do as he says, and will kill him- 
self.” 

u You pity him. ” 
u Jealous one !” said Diana, with 
an adorable accent, and a ravishing 
smile. 

Bussy suffered her to depart. 

At two bounds of her horse, Diana 
was again beside the litter. She 
found the count half fainting. 

u Stop,” murmured the count, 
u stop !” 

u Parbleu /” said Remy, u do not 
stop. He is mad, he wants to kill 
himself — let him kill himself, then!” 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


391 


And the litter still proceeded on 
its way. 

u And after whom are you shout- 
ing ?” said Gertrude. u My mistress 
is here by my side. Come, Madame, 
answer him. Certainly Monsieur 
le Comte is delirious.” 

Diana, without replying a word, 
entered the circle of lights which the 
torches cast around them. 

u Ah,” said Monsoreau, quite ex- 
hausted, u and where were you ?” 
u Where would you have me, Mon- 
sieur, if not behind you ?” 

u By my side, Madame, by my 
side. Do not leave me again.” 

Diana had no longer any motive 
for loitering behind. She knew that 
Bussy was following her. If the 
night had been cleared up by a single 
moonbeam, she would have seen him. 
They reached their halting-place, 
Monsoreau took some repose for a 
few hours, and then desired to set 
out. He was in great haste, not to 
reach Paris, but to get away from 
Angers. 

From time to time the scene which 
we have described was renewed, and 
each time Remy said to himself, in a 
whisper, 

u Let him but expire, choked with 
rage, and the character of the physi- 
cian will be saved.” 

But Monsoreau by no means ex- 
pired 5 on the contrary, at the end of 
ten days he arrived in Paris, and he 
was sensibly on the recovery. 

Decidedly, Remy was a very clever 
man. Cleverer, it is possible, than 
he desired to be in this instance. 

During the ten days spent in this 
journey, Diana had, by dint of ten- 
derness, conquered all Bussy’s over- 
weening pride. 

She had even extorted a promise 
from him to present himself to the 
count, and to make the friendship 
which he offered him a means of 
pleasure to himself. 

The pretext of the visit was simple 
enough. It was the health of the count. 

Remy attended the husband, and 
conveyed notes to the wife. 


u Esculapius, and Mercury,” said 
he, “ all my functions are filled to 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HOW THE AMBASSADOR OF MONSIEUR 
THE DUKE D’ANJOU ARRIVED AT 
PARIS, AND WHAT WAS THE RE- 
CEPTION HE MET. 

Nevertheless, neither Catherine nor 
the Duke of Anjou was seen to re- 
appear at the Louvre, and the news 
of the dissension between the two 
brothers gained every day strength 
and importance. 

The King had received no mes- 
sage from his mother, and instead of 
accepting the ancient proverb, u no 
news, good news,” he said on the 
contrary, as he shook his head, u no 
news, bad news!” 

And the minions added, 
u Francis the ill-advised will have 
obtained your mother.” 

Francis the ill-advised ! and in 
fact to that were reduced all the poli- 
tics of that singular reign, all the 
politics of the three reigns which pre- 
ceded it. 

Ill-advised was King Charles IX., 
when, if he did not order, he at least 
authorized the Saint Bartholomew’s. 
Ill-advised was Francis II. when he 
commanded the massacre of Amboise. 
Ill-advised was Henry II., the father 
of all that perverse race, when he 
caused so many heretics and conspira- 
tors to be burned alive, before he 
was himself killed by Montgomery ; 
who was himself, men said, ill-ad- 
vised, when the truncheon of his 
lance so unluckily penetrated tho 
vizor of the King. 

Men dare not say to a King : 
u Sire, your brother has bad blood 
in his veins, and seeks, according to 
the usage of your family, to dethrone 


S92 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


you, to tonsure you, or to poison you ; 
he desires to do to you what you did 
to your elder brother. ; what your 
elder brother did to his elder brother ; 
what your mother taught all of you 
to do, one to the other. No, a King, 
in those days especially, a King of 
the sixteenth century, would have 
taken such observations as insults, 
for a King of those daya was a man, 
and civilisation alone was capable of 
converting him into a fac simile of 
the Lord, like Louis XIV., or an 
irresponsible mythos, like a constitu- 
tional King.” 

The minions said, therefore, to 
Henry III., 

u Sire, your brother is ill-advised.” 

Now, as the only person who com- 
bined at once the power, the wit, and 
the ability to advise Francis, was 
Bussy ; it was, of course, against 
Bussy, that the whole tempest was 
raised, which was becoming every day 
more furious, and more ready to 
break into open tumult. 

They were employed at the public j 
councils in devising means of intimi- 
dation, and in the private councils 
means of extermination, when the 
news arrived that Monseigneur the 
Duke of Anjou was sending an am- 
bassador. 

How came that news ? By whom 
came it ? Who brought it ? How 
was it spread abroad ? 

It would be as easy to say how 
whirlwinds of wind rise into the air, 
whirlwinds of dust soar above the 
plains, whirlwinds of noise roar above 
cities. 

There is a demon who gives wings 
to certain rumors, and launches them 
like eagles into space. 

When that of which we have 
spoken reached the Louvre, there was 
a general conflagration ; the King 
grew pale with rage, and the courtiers, 
as usual, out-heroding their master’s 
passion, grew livid. 

They swore — it would be difficult 
to say what they did not swear, but 
they swore among other things — 

That if there were an old ambassa- 


dor, the old man should be scouted, 
tossed in a blanket, cast into the 
Bastille — 

That if he should be a young man, 
he should be split in twain, stabbed 
till the day shone through him, hewn 
and hacked into little bits ; which 
should be sent to every district in 
France, as so many examples of the 
royal wrath*. 

And the minions continued, accord- 
ing to their wont, to burnish their ra- 
piers, to take lessons in fencing, and 
to play with their daggers against the 
wall. 

Chicot felt his sword in its scabbard, 
and his dagger in its sheath, and only 
pondered deeply. 

The King, seeing Chicot reflect, re- 
membered that Chicot had one day, 
on a very difficult question, which had 
since that time been fully brought to 
light, entertained a similar opinion 
to his mother’s, which opinion had 
proved to be right. 

He understood, therefore, that the 
wisdom of the realm dwelt in Chicot, 
so he interrogated Chicot. 

u Sire,” replied he, after having 
reflected maturely, u either Monsei- 
gneur the Duke of Anjou is sending 
you an ambassador, or he is not.” 

u Pardieu /” said the King, u it 
was well worth the trouble of delving 
out your cheek with your fist, in order 
to discover this exquisite dilemma.” 

u Patience, patience, as your au- 
gust mother, whom may God long 
preserve, says in the tongue of Master 
Machiavelli.” 

u You see that I have patience,” 
replied the King, u since I am listen- 
ing to you.” 

u If he send you an ambassador, 
it is that he thinks he can do so safe- 
ly. If he thinks that he can do so 
safely, he who is prudence personified, 
it must be because he feels himself 
strong ; if he feel himself strong, we 
must manage him wisely, we must 
respect all things that are powerful, 
we may deceive them if we can, but 
by no means sport with them. Let 
us receive their ambassador and show 


THE LADY OF 

him all manner of respect, and all 
pleasure at seeing him. 

u That moreover binds you to no- 
thing. You remember how your bro- 
ther embraced that good Admiral Co- 
ligny, who came as an ambassador on 
the part of the Huguenots, who also 
at that time thought themselves a 
power.” 

u Then you approve of the po- 
litics of my brother Charles the 
Ninth.” 

u Not so. Let us understand one 
another. I quote a fact ; and I add, 
if at a later period we find a method, 
not of hurting some poor devil of a 
herald-at-arms, or envoy, or messen- 
ger, or ambassador — but, if at a later 
period we find, I say, a method of 
taking by the collar the master, the 
mover, the chief, the great and very 
honorable prince, Monseigneur the 
Duke of Anjou, the true, the only 
true culprit, with the three Messieurs 
de Guise, be it well understood, and 
of clapping them up in a prison far 
stronger than the Louvre — oh ! Sire, 
let us do so.” 

u I like this prelude pretty well,” 
said Henry the Third. 

u Peste ! you have scarce tasted it, 
my son,” said Chicot. u i proceed, 
therefore.” 

u But if he send no ambassador, 
wherefore allow thy friends to low ?” 
“ To low!” 

u You understand I should say 
roar, if it were possible to take them 
for lions or even bulls. I say to low, 
because — look you, Henry, it really 
pains a man’s heart to see these gal- 
liards more bearded than the apes in 
thy menagerie, playing like little 
boys at hobgoblin, and trying to 
frighten men, by crying hou ! hou ! 
without considering that if the Duke 
of Anjou should send nobody, they 
will fancy that it is on their account, 
for fear of them, and will begin to 
believe that they are somebody.’’ 
u Chicot, you forget that the peo- 
ple of whom you speak are my friends, 
my only friends.” 

u Do von desire that i should win 


MONSOREAU. 393 

ten thousand crowns, oh! my King?” 
said Chicot. 
u Speak.” 

u Make me a wager that these men 
will remain faithful against any trial, 
and I will bet that 1 have three out 
of four, entirely my own, soul and 
body, before this hour to-morrow.” 
The perfect coolness with which 
Chicot spoke, moved Henry, and 
made him also reflect. 

u Ha !” said Chicot, u here are 
you pondering also, here you are 
thrusting your pretty fist into your 
charming jaws. You are stronger 
than 1 believed you to be, since you 
are beginning to smell out the truth.” 
u Then you advise me ?” 
u I advise you to wait, oh my King 
Half of the wisdom of King Solo- 
mon, lies in that one word, wait. If 
an ambassador arrive, treat him well. 
If no one come, do as you will. 
But take my advice, and in regard 
even to your brother, know that it 
were not well to sacrifice him to these 
scaramouches. Cordieu ! He is a 
great thief, but he is a Valois. Kill 
if you please ; but for the honor of 
the name do not degrade him, it is a 
business about which he is himself oc- 
cupied with quite sufficient advantage.” 
u That is true, Chicot.” 
u A second lesson this, then, which 
you owe me ; fortunately we do not 
count them up. Now, let me sleep, 
Henry. It is eight days now, since I 
found myself compelled to make a 
monk dead drunk, and when 1 under- 
take any of these acts of extraordi- 
nary power, it requires me a whole 
week before 1 get sober again.” 

. u A monk ! what, the good monk of 
Saint-Genevieve, of whom you spoke 
to me ?” 

u Just so. You promised him an 
abbey.” 

“I?” 

u Pcirdieu ! It is the least you 
can do for him, after all that he has 
done for you.” 

u He is devoted to me, then, is he 
u He adores you. By the way, mj 
son r” — 


* 


t 


a* » 


394 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


ic What now ?” 

u It wants three weeks to Corpus- 
Christ i day !” 
u What then ?” 

u I hope you are cooking up some 
pretty little procession for that day.’’ 
u I am the very Christian King, 
and it is my duty to give my people 
an example of religion.” 

u And as usual you will make visits 
at each of the four great convents of 
Paris ?” 

u As usual.” 

u The abbey of Saint-Genevieve is 
one of them ? is it not ?” 

u Certainly. It is the second 
which I intend to visit.” 

“ Good.” 

u Wherefore do you ask me these 
things ?” 

u For no reason ; I am curious, my- 
self. Now, 1 know what I want to 
know. Good night, Henry.” 

At this moment, as Chicot was tak- 
ing all his ease to get a good nap, a 
great noise was heard in the Louvre. 

u What noise is that ?” asked the 
King. 

u Come,” said Chicot, u it is writ- 
ten that I am not to sleep, Henry ” 
u VVhat then ?” 

u Hire me a room in town, my son, 
or I quit your service. My word of 
honor, the Louvre is becoming unin- 
habitable.” 

At this moment the captain of the 
guard entered ; his face wore an alarm- 
ed expression. 

u What is the matter ?” asked the 
King. 

u Sire,” replied the captain, u it is 
the envoy of the Duke of Anjou, who 
has just dismounted at the Louvre.” 
u With a train ?” asked the 
King. 

u No, Sire, entirely alone.” 
u Then we must receive him doubly 
well, for he must be a brave man.” 
u Come,” said the King, endeavor- 
ing to assume an air of calmness, 
which his cold pallor quite belied, 
u let all my court be assembled in the 
great hall ; and let them dress me in 
black, one should be arrayed in 


mourning when he has the misfortune 
to treat with the ambassador of his 
brother. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

WHICH IS NO MORE THAN THE CLOSE 
OF THE LAST, ABRIDGED BY THE 
AUTHOR ON ACCOUNT OF THE END 
OF THE YEAR. 

The throne of Henry the Third stood 
in the Great Hall. 

Around that throne thronged a 
tumultuous and roaring multitude. 

The king entered and took his seat 
thereon, sorrowful, and with a frown- 
ing brow. 

All eyes were turned toward the 
gallery by which the captain of the 
guard would introduce the envoy. 

u Sire,” said Quelus, bending down 
to the ear of the King, u do you know 
the name of the ambassador?” 

u No. But what does it matter to 

^ 0 0 
me ?” 

u Sire, it is Monsieur de Bussy ; is 
not the insult threefold ?” 

u 1 do not see in what there can lie 
any insult here,” said Henry, making 
an effort to remain cool. 

u Perhaps your Majesty does not 
see it,” said Schomberg, u but we 
see it ; very clearly, too ” 

Henry made no reply. He felt 
that rage and hatred were boiling 
around his throne, and he applauded 
himself internally, for having thu3 
thrown up a double rampart of this 
force between himself and his ene- 
mies. 

Quelus, turning red and pale by 
turns, leaned both his hands on the 
guard of his rapier. 

Schomberg threw off his gloves, aLd 
half unsheathed his poniard. 

Maugiron took his sword from toe 
hands of a page, and hooked. it go bis 
hilt 

D’Epernon twisted hie moustaches 


THE LAm OF MONSOREAU. 


395 


upward to his eyes, and stationed him- 
self behind the other. 

As to Henrv, like a hunter who 
hears his hounds bay the boar, he let 
his favorites do as they would, and 
smiled. 

u Introduce him,” said he. 

At these words, a silence as of 
death took possession of the hall, yet 
from the very depth of that silence it 
might be said that the anger of the 
King uttered a deeper sound of wrath. 

Then a sharp step, then a firm foot, 
the spur of which dashed proudly on 
the pavement, came ringing through 
the gallery. 

And Bussy entered, with head 
erect, calm eye, and hat in hand. 

No one of those who stood around the 
King attracted the haughty eye of the 
'young gentleman. He advanced to- 
ward Henry, bowed very low, and 
stood awaiting until he should be 
questioned, in a proud attitude before 
the throne, but with a pride that was 
purely personal, the pride of a gen- 
tleman, which had nothing in it that 
would insult the majesty of the King. 

u You here, Monsieur de Bussy ; I 
supposed you to be at the further end 
of Anjou.” 

u Sire,” said Bussy , u I was there 
indeed ; but, as you see, T have left 
it.” 

u And what brings you to our capi- 
tal ?” 

u The desire of paying my humble 
respects to your Majesty.” 

The King and his minions gazed at 
one another. It was clear that they 
expected something widely different 
from the impetuous young man. 
u And — nothing further r” said the 

O 

King, haughtily enough. 

U I will add to that motive, Sire, 
the orders which I have received from 
his Highness, Monseigneur the Duke 
of Anjou, my master, to present his 
respects to you with my own.” 

u And did the duke desire you to 
say nothing more ?” 

u He told me that, being on the 
point of returning with the Queen- 
mother, he was desirous that your 


«* 

Majesty should be informed of the 
return of one of the most faithful of 
your subjects.” 

The # King, almost suffocated by the 
surprise, could not continue his inter- 
rogatory. Chicot profited by the inter- 
ruption to approach the ambassador. 

u Good morrow, Monsieur de Bus- 
sy,” said he. Bussy turned round, 
astonished to find a friend-in the whole 
assembly. 

u Ah ! Monsieur Chicofc, good mor- 
row to you, with all my heart,” re- 
plied Bussy. “ How is Monsieur da 
Saint-Luc ?” 

u He is very well. He is walking 
at this moment with his wife, near the 
aviaries.” 

u And is that all you have to say 
to me, Monsieur de Bussy ?” asked the 
King. 

u Yes, Sire. Should there remain 
anything more important to be saki, 
Monseigneur the Duke d’ Anjou will 
have the honor to say it to you him- 
self.” 

u Very well,” said the King. 

And, arising silently from his 
throne, he descended the two steps. 

The audience was over, and the 
court circle broke up into groups. 

Bussy remarked, with one corner of 
his eye, that he was surrounded by 
the four minions, as it were in a living 
circle, full of menaces and indigna- 
tion. 

At the further end of the hall the 
King was talking with the chancellor 
in whispers. 

Bussy pretended to see nothing of 
what was in progress, but continued 
talking with Chicot. 

Then, as if he had entered into the 
plot, and had resolved to isolate Bus- 
sy, the King called out : 

u Come hither, Chicot. We have 
something to say to you here.” 

Chicot bowed to Bussy with a de- 
gree of courtesy that would have 
proved him a gentleman at a league’s 
distance. 

Bussy returned his salute with equal 
courtesy, and T emained alone in the 
middle of his circle. ^ 


396 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


Then he once more changed his 
countenance and aspect. Having been 
calm, while conversing with the King, 
he had become polite with Chicot ; he 
now was actually gracious. 

Seeing Quelus approaching him : 
u Ah ! good morrow, Monsieur de 
Quelus,” said he to him, u may I 
have the honor of inquiring how your 
house finds itself.” 

u 111 enough, Monsieur,” said Que- 
lus. 

u Oh! Mon Dieu /” said Bussy, as 
if he were grieved at the reply, “ and 
what then has befallen it ?” 

u There is something which annoys 
as infinitely,” replied Quelus. 

a Something ? ” said Bussy in as- 
tonishment. u Ah ! are you not suffi- 
ciently powerful, you and your 
friends, and especially yourself, Mon- 
sieur Quelus, to be able to overturn 
this something ? ” 

u Pardon me, Monsieur,” said 
Maugiron, putting aside Schomberg, 
who was advancing to thrust in his 
word into this conversation, which 
promised soon to become interesting. 
u It is some one that Monsieur Que- 
lus means to say.” 

u But if some one annoys Monsieur 
Quelus, why does he not push him, 
as you have just done ?” 

u That is the advice which I also 
have given to him, Monsieur de Bus- 
sy,” said Schomberg, u and I think 
Quelus has determined to follow it.” 
u Ah ! is that you, Monsieur de 
Schomberg?” said Bussy. u I had 
not the honor of recognizing you.” 
a Perhaps,” said Schomberg, u I 
have still some blue on my face ? ” 
u Not so, you are very pale, on the 
contrary ; are you perchance indis- 
posed, Monsieur ? ” 

u Monsieur,” said Schomberg, u if 
I am pale it is with rage.” 

u Ah, truly. Then you are, I pre- 
sume, like Monsieur de Quelus, an- 
noyed by something, or by some one.” 
u Yes, Monsieur.” 
u That is like me,” said Maugiron. 
iC I also have some one who annoys 
me.” 


u Always witty, my dear Monsieur 
de Maugiron,” said Bussy, u but in 
truth, Messieurs, the more I look at 
you, the more does the discomposure 
of your countenances strike me.” 
u You forget me, Monsieur,” said 
D’Epernon, taking a proud position 
in front of Bussy. 

u Pardon me, Monsieur d’Eper- 
non, you were behind the others, ac- 
cording to your wont, and I have the 
honor of so slight an acquaintance 
with you that it was not my place to 
speak first.” 

The smile and undisturbed coolness 
of Bussy, placed between those four 
angry men, whose eyes spoke with an 
eloquence so terrible, presented a cu- 
rious spectacle. Had he not under- 
stood the point at which they would 
arrive, he must have been blind or 
stupid. 

To appear not to understand this, 
was necessary — to be Bussy. 

He kept silence, and the same easy 
smile sat fixed upon his lips. 

u At last ! ” cried Quelus, who lost 
his temper the first, in a loud violent 
voice, stamping his foot heavily upon 
the floor. 

Bussy raised his eyes to the ceiling 
and looked around him. 

u Monsieur,” said he, u did you 
observe how remarkable an echo there 
is in this hall ? Nothing sends back 
sound like walls of marble, and 
voices are doubly sonorous under 
vaults of stucco. Quite on the con- 
trary when persons are in the open 
country, voices divide themselves, and 
I believe upon my honor that the 
clouds absorb their share of them. 1 
have taken the idea, I believe, from 
Aristophanes. Have you read Aris- 
tophanes, Messieurs ?”• 

Maugiron perceived that he had 
understood Bussy's invitation, and 
drew nearer to the young gentleman, 
as if to whisper in his ear. 

Bussy stopped him short. 
u No confidences here, Monsieur, I 
entreat you. You know how jealous 
his Majesty is. He would imagine 
i that we were abusing him.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


397 


Maugiron retired more furious than 
before. Schomberg took his place, 
and in a stiff, starched tone, said — 

u For my part, I am a very heavy, 
very dull, but very frank German ; I 
speak loud to give those whom I ad- 
dress every opportunity of hearing 
what I say ; but when my words, 
which I endeavor to render as per- 
spicuous as possible, are not heard 
because he whom I address is deaf, or 
are not understood because he whom I 
address does not choose to understand 
then, I — ” 

u You what?” said Bussy, rivet- 
ing on the young man, whose agitated 
hand was raised a little from its cen- 
tre, one of those glances of fire such 
as tigers only can cause to flash at 
pleasure from the depth of their dilat- 
ed pupils, like streams of continu- 
ous flame — u Then you — what? ” 

Schomberg hesitated, and stopped 
short. Bussy shrugged his shoulders, 
spun round on his heel, and turned 
his back to his face. 

He now stood front to front with 
D’Ep ernon. D’Epernon was thrust 
into the van, and could not retire. 

u See, Messieurs,” said he, u see 
what a provincial Monsieur de Bussy 
has become in the fugue which he has 
been executing with Monseigneur the 
Duke of Anjou ; he has a beard, and 
has no sword knot. He has black 
boots, and a grey felt hat.” 

u That is my observation, which I 
was on the point of making to myself, 
my dear Monsieur d’Epernon. When 
1 saw you so well dressed I began to 
ask myself how it could be that a few 
days’ absence should so far reduce a 
man : for here am I compelled, I, 
Louis de Bussy, lord of Clermont, to 
take a petty Gascon gentleman as the 
model of my taste. But let me pass, 
I pray you ; you are so near me that 
you have trodden on my foot, and 
Monsieur de Quelus also, which I 
felt, I assure you, in spite of my 
boots,” he added, with a charming 
smile. 

At this moment, Bussy passing be- 
tween D’Epernon and Quelus, ex- 


tended his hand to Saint-Luc, who 
had just entered. 

Saint-Luc felt that his hand was 
literally bathed in perspiration. 

He then understood that something 
extraordinary was passing, and he 
dragged Bussy first out of the group 
and then out of the hall. 

A strange murmur ran through the 
knot of minions, and circulated 
among the other groups which filled 
the hall. 

“ It is incredible,” said Quelus. 
u I insulted him, and he made no an- 
swer.” 

“ I,” said Maugiron, u challenged 
him, and lie made no answer.” 

u For me,” said Schomberg, u my 
hand was raised to the level of my 
face, and he made no answer.” 

a For me, I trod on his foot,” 
cried D’Epernon, u trod on his foot, 
and he made no answer.” And he 
seemed to have grown taller by the 
whole thickness of Bussy’s foot. 

It is clear that he did not choose 
to comprehend us,’’ said Quelus. 
u There is something under this.” 
u There is — there is,” said Schom- 
berg, u and I know what it is.” 
u And what is it ?” 
u It is this, that he feels that staked 
against us four, we should kill him, 
and that he does not wish to be killed.” 
At this moment the King came up 
to the young men ; Chicot was whis- 
pering in his ear. 

u Well,” said the King, u what 
did M. Bussy say ? It seemed to me 
that I heard loud voices in this direc- 
tion.” 

u Do you desire to know what 
Monsieur de Bussy said, Sire ?” asked 
D’Epernon. 

u Yes, you know that I am curi- 
ous, 1 ' said Henry, smiling. 

u Upon my honor, nothing good, 
Sire,” said Quelus. u He is no lon- 
ger a Parisian.” 

u What is he then ?” 
u He is a countrv clown, who gets 
out of honor’s way.” 

u Oh ! oh !” said the King, u what 
| does that mean ?” 


398 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u It means that I am going to train 
a dog to bite the calves of his legs,” 
said Quelus. 

kC And yet who knows whether he 
will discover it through his boots ?” 
u And I,” said Schomberg, u have 
a quintain at my house which I shall 
call Bussy.” 

u I,” said D’Epernon, u will go 
farther and more directly. To-day I 
walked on his foot, to-morrow I will 
box his ears. He is falsely brave, 
brave for self-love alone ; he says to 
himself, I have fought sufficiently for 
honor, I will be prudent now for life.” 
u What, what, Messieurs,” cried 
Henry, with feigned wrath, u have you 
dared to maltreat under my roof, in 
the Louvre, a gentleman who belongs 
to my brother ?” 

u Alas ! yes,” said Maugiron, re- 
plying to the feigned anger of the 
King with feigned humility, u and 
although we seriously maltreated him, 
Sire, I swear to you, that he replied 
nothing.” 

The King looked at Chicot with a 
smile, and leaning down his ear, 
u Do you still think that they only 
low , Chicot ? I think they have 
roared. — Hey ?” 

u Oh !” said Chicot, u perhaps 
they mewed. I know some per- 
sons whose nerves are dreadfully af- 
fected by the mewing of a cat. Per- 
haps Monsieur de Bussy is one of 
those persons. That is perhaps the 
reason why he went out without re- 

pty-” 

u Do you think so ?” said the King. 
u Who shall live shall see,” said 
Chicot, sententiously. 

u Let it be, then,” said Henry, 
u like master, like valet.” 

u If you mean by those words, Sire, 
to say, that Monsieur de Bussy is 
the valet of your brother, you are 
sadly mistaken.” 

“ Messieurs,” said Henry, u I am 
going to the Queen, with whom I 
dine. By and by the Gelosi are 
coming to play us a farce. I invite 
you all to come and see it.” 

The whole assembly bowed respect- 


fully, and the King made his exit by 
the grand door. 

Precisely at the same moment, 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc made his en- 
trance by the small one. 

By a motion of his hand, he stop- 
ped the four gentlemen, who were just 
going forth. 

u Pardon me, Monsieur de Que- 
lus,” he said with a bow, u do you 
still live in the Rue Saint-Honore ?” 

u Yes, ‘dear friend, wherefore do 
you inquire ?” asked Quelus. 

u I have two words to say to you.” 
“ Ah ! Ah!” 

u And you, Monsieur de Schom- 
berg, may I venture to inquire your 
address ?” 

u I — I live in the Rue Bethisy,” 
said Schomberg in astonishment. 
u D’Epernon, I know your lodg- 


ing. 




u In the Rue de Grenelle.” 
u You are my neighbor ; and you, 
Maugiron ?” 

u I am waiting at the Louvre.” 
u 1 will begin then with you, if you 
will permit me. No, rather with 
you, Quelus.” 

u Excellent well. I think I under- 
stand. You come on the part of 
Monsieur de Bussy.” 

u I say not on whose part I come. 
I have something to say to you ; that 
is all.” 

“ To all four ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Well ! but if you do not desire to 
speak in the Louvre, as I presume, 
because it is an unsuitable place, we 
can withdraw to one of our houses. 
We can all understand together that 
which you have to say to each of us in 
particular.” 

u Perfectly well.” 
u Let us go to Schomberg’s house, 
then, in the Rue Bethisy ; it is but 
two paces hence.” 

u Yes. Let us go to my house,’' 
said the young gentleman. 

u Be it so, Messieurs,” said Saint- 
Luc, and again he bowed low. u 
us the way, Monsieur de S 
berg.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


3J9 


iC V ery willingly.” 

The five gentlemen went forth from 
the Louvre, holding each other by the 
arm, and occupying the whole breadth 
of the street. 

They soon reached the Rue Bethi- 
sy, and Schomberg caused the grand 
saloon of the hotel to be prepared for 
the ceremony. • 

Saint-Luc in the meantime waited 
in the antechamber. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOW MONSIEUR DE SAINT-LUC AC- 
QUITTED HIMSELF OF THE COMMIS- 
SION WITH WHICH MONSIEUR DE 
EUSSY HAD INTRUSTED HIM. 

Let us leave Saint-Luc for a moment 
in Schomberg’s antechamber, in 
order to see what had passed between 
him and Bussy. 

Bussy, as we have seen, had left 
the audience chamber with his friend, 
addressing his salutations to all those 
whom party spirit did not absorb to 
such a degree as to neglect a man so 
formidable as Bussy. 

For, in those days, brute force, or 
personal power, was everything. A 
man, if he were bold and ready, could 
cut out for himself, even in the heart 
of the beauteous realm of France, a 
little physical and moral kingdom. 

It was thus that Bussy reigned in 
the court of King Henry III. 

But on this day, as we have seen, 
Bussy had been ill-received in his 
kingdom. 

Once out of the great hall, Saint- 
Luc stopped short, and looking at 
him anxiously, said,. 

u Are you about to fall ill, my 
friend ? In truth, you are growing 
so pale that one would suppose you 
were about to faint.” 

u No,” said Bussy. u I am only 
choking with anger.” 

u Good. Do you pay attention, 


then, to all the follies of those 

scamps ?” 

u Corbleu ! Good friend, you shall 
soon see what attention I pay to 
them.” 

a Come, come, Bussy, be calm.” 
u You are charming — calm indeed. 
If one-half of that which I have heard 
to-day had been said to you, being of 
the temperament which I know, these 
would have been dead men !” 

u In a word, what do you want of 
me ?” 

u You are my friend, Saint-Luc, 
and you have given me a terrible 
proof of your friendship.” 

u Ah, my dear friend,” said Saint- 
Luc, who believed Monsoreau to be 
dead and buried, u the thing is not 
worth the trouble of talking about. 
Say no more about it, therefore, or 
you will disoblige me. Certainly it 
was a neat hit, and what is more, it 
hit the matter on the head. But I 
have not the credit of the hit, for the 
King taught it me in fencing, while 
he kept me a prisoner in the Louvre.” 
“ My good fellow!” 

“ Let us say no more then about 
the Monsoreau, wherever he may be, 
but let us talk about Diana. Was 
she well pleased, poor little thing ? 
Has she forgiven me ? Where is the 
marriage to be, and when the bap- 
tism ?” 

u Ah, my good friend, you had 
better wait until the Monsoreau is 
dead.” 

u What do you say, I pray you ?” 
said Saint-Luc, jumping as if he had 
trod on something sharp. 

u Ah, my dear friend, corn-poppies 
are not so dangerous a plant as you at 
first believed them to be, and he is 
not yet dead, for all that he fell upon 
them ; on the contrary, he is alive, and 
is more furious than ever.” 
u Bah ! are you in earnest ?” 
u Oh ! Mon Dieu ! Yes. He 
breathes only vengeance, and has 
sworn to kill you on the first opportu- 
nity.” 

u Really, my dear fellow, you con 
found me.” 


400 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u It is just as I tell you, however. ” I : 
u He is alive ?” 
u Alas ! he is,” 

u And what double distilled ass of 
& physician was it that attended him ?” 
u My own, dear friend.” 
u What is this ? I do not under- 
stand,” cried Saint-Luc, astounded 
by this revelation. u Ah, then 1 am 

dishonored. Ventrebleu ! I who an- 
% 

nounced his death to all the world, 
so that he will find his heirs in 
mourning. Oh, but I will not have 
the lie given me ; I will meet him at 
some time or other, and on our next 
encounter, instead of one sword 
thrust, I will give him four, if he 
need so many.” 

66 In your turn be tranquil, dear 
Saint-Luc,” said Bussy. u In truth, 
Monsoreau serves me better than you 
would imagine. Only conceive that 
it is the duke whom he suspects of 
having set you upon him, it is of the j 
duke that he is jealous. For me, I 
am an angel, a precious friend. In a 
word, I am his dear Bussy. It is all 
very natural, for, in short, it was that 
animal Remy who got him out of the 
scrape.” 

u What stupid notion could he 
have had in that ?” 

u What should you suppose ? An j 
honest man’s notion. He pictures to 
himself that it is a physician’s duty 
to cure people.” 

u But the fellow must be a com- j 
plete visionary.” 

u To be short, it is to me that he ; 
attributes the saving of his life ; it is j 
to me that he entrusts his wife.” 

u Ah, I comprehend how that fact j 
leads you to await his death more 
philosophically, but it is not the less | 
true that I am perfectly thunderstruck j 
by all this.” 

u My dear friend.” I 

u Upon my honor. I have fallen | 
from the clouds.” 

u You see that it is a question ' 
about Monsieur de Monsoreau.” 
u No, let us enjoy life, while he is 
still upon his back. But on the mo- 
men* of his convalescence, I give you '' 


notice that I shall order myself a 
mail-shirt, and have my window- 
shutters doubled with iron. You 
will also be kind enough to learn from 
the Duke of Anjou whether his good 
mother has not given some recipe 
which is an antidote for all poisons. 
In the meantime, let us amuse our- 
selves.” 

Bussy could not restrain a smile. 
He passed his arm under Saint-Luc’a 
and said — 

u Therefore you see, my dear Saint- 
Luc, that you have only done me 
half a service.” 

Saint-Luc gazed at him in aston- 
ishment. 

u That is true,” said he. u Do 
you wish then that I should finish 
him ? It is somewhat hard, but upon 
my honor, for you, my dear Bussy, I 
am ready to do much, especially if he 
still regards me despitefully.” 

u No, my dear fellow, no. I told 
you already that we have done with 
the Monsoreau. So if you owe me 
anything on that head, carry it to 
my account in regard to other mat- 
ters.” 

u Well, well, say on. I listen.” 
u Are you on very good terms with 
messieurs the minions ?” 

u Upon my word ! Yes. Hair to 
hair, like cats and dogs in the sun- 
shine. So long as the rays warm ua 
all, we say nothing to one another ; 
if one of us alone were to take away 
the light and heat from the rest, oh ! 
then 1 would promise you nothing. 
Claws and teeth would play out their 
game.” 

u Well, my dear friend, I am 
charmed at what you tell me.” 
u Ah ! so much the better.” 
u Let us suppose that the sun 
beam is intercepted.” 

u Be it so, let us suppose it.” 
u Then show me your beautiful 
white teeth ; stretch out your formi- 
dable claws, and let us open * 
11 .” 

u I do not understand vou.” 

* 

Bussy smiled. 

u You are going, if you pleas 


THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


401 


dear friend, to address Monsieur de 
Quelus.” 

All ! ha !” said Saint-Luc. 
u You are beginning to understand, 
are you not ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u ExceMent ! You will ask him on 
what day it will please him to cut my 
throat, or to allow me to cut his.” 
u I will ask him, my dear friend.” 
u It does not annoy you to do so.” 
u By no means. I will go when- 
ever you please — this moment, if you 
like it.” 

u One minute. In going to the 
house of Monsieur de Quelus, you 
will on the same occasion do me the 
favor of calling on Monsieur de 
Schomberg, to whom you will make 
the same proposition, will you not ?” 
u Ah ! ha !” said Saint-Luc, u to 
Monsieur de Schomberg also ? The 
devil ! How you go on, Bussy !” 
Bussy made a gesture which for- 
bade all reply. 

u Be it so,” said Saint-Luc. u Your 
will shall be done.” 

u Then, my dear Saint-Luc, since 
l find you so amiable, you will go into 
the Louvre to the quarters of Mon- 
sieur de Maugiron, who had his gor- 
get on when I saw him, a sign that he 
was on duty. You will invite him to 
join the rest, will you not ?” 

u Oh ! oh !” said Saint-Luc, 
“ three, do you think of it, Bussy ? 
But say, at the worst, are these all ?” 
“ Not quite.” 
u How not quite ?” 
tc Thence you will go to Monsieur 
d’Epernon’s. I shall not detain you 
long speaking of him, for I hold him 
but a scurvy companion ; he will do, 
h' to make up the number.” 

let both his arms fall 
c ddes, and gazed silently 

... Hr V 
u ; 


u 

i* * 

met 


he murmured. 

,a ae very number, dear 
d Bussy, nodding assent, 
t is unnecessary that I 
> commend it to a person 

.t, your bravery, and your 
to j roceed with these gen- 


tlemen with all that sweetness and 
polite grace, which you possess in so 
eminent a degree.” 

u Oh ! my dear friend.” 
u I leave it to your own judgment 
how to do all this — gallantly. Let 
the thing be arranged in lordly style, 
shall it not be so ?” 

u You shall be satisfied, my 
friend.” 

Bussy extended his hand to Saint- 
Luc with a smile. 

u It is all very well !” said he. 
u Ah, Messieurs minions, we shall 
laudi in our turn.” 

O 

u Now, my dear friend, the condi- 
tions.” 

u What conditions ?” 

“ Your conditions, to be sure.” 
u I make none. I will accept those 
of Messieurs.” 
u Your arms ?” 

“ The arms of Messieurs.” 
u The day, the place, and the 
hour ?” 

“ The day, the place, and the hour 
of Messieurs.” 

u But in a word” — 
u Let us talk no more about this 
wretched stuff. Do it, and do it 
quickly, dear friend. I will walk 
down yonder, in the little garden of 
the Louvre. You will find me there, 
with your commission done.” 
u You will wait for me there ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Wait, then. By’r lady ! it may 
be somewhat long.” 

u I have time and to spare.” 

Now we know how Saint-Luc found 
the four young men still together in 
the audience-chamber, and how he 
introduced the conversation. Let us 
rejoin him then, in the antechamber 
of Schomberg’s hotel, where he left 
him ceremoniously waiting, according 
to all the laws of etiquette in vogue 
at that period, until the four favor- 
ites of his Majesty, suspecting un- 
doubtedly the cause of Saint-Luc’s 
visit, should post themselves in the 
four cardinal corners of the great 
hall. 

That done, the doors were thrown 


402 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


wide with both leaves open, and an 
usher came forward and bowed to 
Saint-Luc, who with his fist on his 
hip, turning his mantle gallantly up 
with his rapier, on the hilt of which 
he leaned his left hand, and holding 
his hat in his right, walked . to the 
middle of the threshold, on which he 
halted, with a degree of precision that 
would have done honor to the ablest 
architect. 

u Monsieur d’Espinay de Saint- 
Luc!” cried the usher. 

Saint-Luc entered. 

Schomberg, in his capacity as mas- 
ter of the house, arose and came to 
meet his guest, who, instead of bow- 
ing, placed his hat on his head. 

This formality gave its color and 
intention to his visit. 

Schomberg replied by a bow, and 
then turning toward Quelus, 

a I have the honor of presenting 
you,” he said, u to Monsieur Jaques 
de Levis, Count of Quelus.” 

Saint-Luc made onefstep toward 
Quelus, and in his turn bowed low. 

u I was seeking Monsieur,” said 
he. 

Quelus bowed. 

Schomberg resumed, turning to the 
other side of the hall, 

u I have the honor of presenting to 
Monsieur Louis de Maugiron.” 

The same salutation on the part of 
Saint-Luc, the same reply from Mau- 
giron. 

“ I was seeking Monsieur,” said 
Saint-Luc. 

With D’Epernon the ceremony was 
the same. The same phlegm, and the 
same slowness. 

Then, in his turn, Schomberg 
named himself, and received the same 
compliment. 

That done, the four friends took 
their seats ; Saint-Luc remained 
-standing. 

u Monsieur Le Comte,” said he to 
Quelus, u you have insulted Monsieur 
Le Comte Louis de Clermont d’Am- 
boise, Seigneur de Bussy, who pre- 
sents his very humble civilities to you, 
and calls you to single combat, on 


such day and at such hour as to you 
shall seem good, in order that you 
may fight with such arms as shall 
please you, until death ensue. Do 
you accept ?” 

u Certainly, yes,” replied Quelus 
quietly. u And Monsieur le Comte 
de Bussy does me much honor.” 
u Your day, Monsieur le Comte ?” 
u I have no preference. Only I 
should prefer to-morrow to the day 
after, and the day after to any day 
ensuing.” 

“ Your hour?” 
u The morning.” 
u Your arms ?” 

u The rapier and dagger, if those 
arms be agreeable to Mons. de Bussy.” 
u Whatever you shall decide on that 
point will be law to Mons. de Bussy.” 
Here he addressed himself to Mau- 
giron, who replied in the same words, 
and then in succession to the two 
others. 

u But,” said Schomberg, who as 
the master of the house received this 
compliment last of the three, u we 
have not thought upon one thing, 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc.” 
u What is that ?” 
u It is that if it should please us 
(chance sometimes brings about 
strange things), if it should please us, 
I say, all to select the same day and 
the same hour, Monsieur de Bussy 
might be much embarrassed.” 

Saint-Luc bowed with his most 
courteous smile on his lips. 

u Certes !” said he, u Mons. de 
Bussy would be embarrassed, as any 
gentleman must needs be, in the pre- 
sence of four gallant men like your- 
selves ; but he says that the case 
would not be new to him since it has 
occurred already, in the Rue desTour- 
nelles, near the Bastille.” 

u And he will fight us all four?” 
asked D’Epernon. 

“ All four.” 

u Separately ?” asked Schomberg. 
u Separately or together. The 
challenge is at once individual and 
collective.” 

The four young men looked at 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


403 


each other. Quelus was the first to 
break silence. 

“It is very fine on the part of 
Mons. de Bussy,” said he, reddening 
with anger, “ but however little we 
may be worth, we can do our devoir, 
each one for himself. We will accept 
the proposition of the count, there- 
fore, to fight in succession, or what 
would be better yet — ” 

Quelus looked at his friends, who 
understanding what he meant doubt- 
less, made a sign of assent. 

“ Or what would be better yet,’’ he 
repeated, u since we do not desire to 
assassinate a gallant man, let lots de- 
cide which of us shall encounter 
Mons. de Bussy.” 

“ But,” said Saint-Luc, quickly, 
“the other three ?” 

“ The other three ! Mons. de Bus- 
sy has surely too many friends, and 
we have too many enemies, that the 
three others should remain with their 
arms folded.” 

“ Are you of the same opinion with 
me, Messieurs ?” added Quelus, turn- 
ing to his companions. 

u Yes,” replied they all with one 
voice. 

“ It would be particularly agreea- 
ble to me,’ said Sehomberg, “ if Mons, 
de Bussy would invite Mons. de Li- 
varot to this fete.” 

“If 1 might venture to express an 
idea,” said Maugiron, u I should 
desire that Mons. de Balzac d’Entra- 
ques should be present also.” 

“ And the party would be com- 
lete,’’ said Quelus, “ if Mons. de Ri- 
erac would accompany his friends.” 
“ Messieurs,” said Saint-Luc, “ I 
will transmit your desires to Mons. 
the Count de Bussy, and I think that 
I can reply to you that he is too cour- 
teous not to conform to them. It 
therefore only remains to me, Mes- 
sieurs, to thank you very sincerely 
on the part of the c*.unt.” 

Saint-Luc bowed anew, and the 
four heads of the challenged gentle- 
men were bent to the same level with 
his o^n. 

The four young men then escorted 


Saint-Luc to the door of the saloon. 
In the outer antechamber he found 
the four lacqueys assembled. 

He drew out his purse full of gold, 
and cast it into the midst of them, 
saving, 

“ Here is t? drink to the health 
of your masters !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

* — 

IN WHAT RESPECT MONS. DE SAINT- 

LUC WAS MORE 'CIVILIZED THAN 

MONS. DE BUSSY ; OF THE LESSONS 

WHICH HE GAVE TO HIM, AND OF 

THE USE WHICH THE FAIR DI- 

ANA’S LOVER MADE OF THEM. 

Saint-Luc returned very proud of 
having performed his commission so 
well. 

Bussy was waiting for him and 
thanked him. 

But Saint-Luc observed that he 
was sad, which was not natural to so 
brave a man on hearing of a good and 
brilliant duel. 

“ Have I managed matters badly?” 
asked Saint-Luc. “You seem quite 
out of sorts.” 

“ Upon my word, my dear friend, 
I regret that you did not say instant- 
ly, instead of appointing a remote 
time.” 

“ Ah ! patience. The Angevins 
have not yet come. What the devil ! 
give them the time to come. More- 
over, what is the necessity of your 
being in such a hurry to make a little 
heap of the dead and dying ?” 

“ It is because I would die as soon 
as possible.” 

Saint-Luc Poked at Bussy with 
that astonishment which persons per 
fectly well organized themselves feel 
at the slightest appearance of unhap- 
piness in another. 

“ To die ! When one is of your 
age, with such a mistress, and such a 
name ?’ ? 


404 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


“ Yes. I should kill, I am sure, all 
four of them, and receive a good thrust 
which would tranquillize me for ever.” 
u Black ideas, Bussy.” 
u I wish I could see you so placed. 
A husband who is believed to be dead 
and comes to life again. A wife who 
cannot leave the bedside of this pre- 
tended dying man. Never the power 
of smiling on each other, of speaking 
to each other, of pressing each other’s 
hand. Mordieu ! 1 wish I had some 
one whom to flay alive.” 

Saint-Luc replied to this escapade 
by a fit of laughter which made a 
whole flight of the sparrows that were 
picking the fruit on the service-trees 
in the gardens of the Louvre, take 
wing all at once. 

u Ah !” cried he/ u What an in- 
nocent man we have here ! And then 
to say that women love this Bussy, a 
mere scholar ! Why, my dear fellow, 
you are losing your wits. There is 
not so happy a lover as yourself in 
all the world !” 

u Ah ! very likely ! prove that to 
me a little, you, a married man.” 
u c Nihil facilius ,’ as the Jesuit 
Triquet my pedagogue used to say. 
You are the intimate friend of 
Monsieur de Monsor§au ?” 

u Upon my honor ! I am ashamed 
of it, for the honor of human intelli- 
gence. This blind bittern calls me 
his friend.” 

u Well. Be his friend.” 
u Ah ! but to abuse that title !” 
u c Prorsus ahsurdum /’ Triquet 
always used to say. Is he in truth 
your friend ?” 

u At least he says so.” 
u No, since he renders you unhappy 
he cannot be so. Now the end of 
friendship is to cause the men both 
to be happy ; at least, so it is that 
his Majesty defines friendship, and 
the King is well read.’’ 

O 

Bussy began to laugh. 
u I proceed,” said Saint-Luc. u If 
he renders you unhappy, you are not 
friends ; therefore you are at liberty 
to treat him either as an indifferent 
person and so take his wife from 


him, or as an enemy, and kill him 
over again, if he be not content.” 
u In fact,” said Bussy, u 1 detest 
him.” 

u And he is afraid of you.” 
u Do you think that he does not 
like me ?” 

“ By’r lady ! try. Take his wife, 
and you will see.” 

u Is this still Father Triquet ’s 
logic ?” 

“ No. It is my own.” 
u I make you my compliments 
upon it.” 

“ Is it satisfactory to you ?” 
u No. I prefer to be a man of 
honor — ” 

u And to suffer Madame de Mon- 
soreau to cure her husband morally 
and physically ? For in one word, if 
you get yourself killed, it is certain 
that she will attach herself to the 
only man that is left to her — ” 

Bussy frowned. 

u But, over and above all,” added 
Saint Luc, u here comes Madame de 
Saint-Luc ; she is a good adviser. 
After having gathered herself a boquet 
in the Queen-mother’s gardens, she 
will be in a very good humor. Lis- 
ten to her, she speaks words of 
gold.” 

In truth, Joan came up, radiant and 
dazzling with happiness, and spark- 
ling with good-humored mischief. 
There are happy dispositions whose 
nature it is to give a joyous awaken- 
ing, a smiling augury to everything 
that surrounds them, as the lark does 
to the gay fields. 

Bussy bowed to her as a friend. 
She gave him her hand, which is a 
proof that it is not the plenipotentia- 
ry Dubois who brought back this 
fashion from England, together with 
the treaty of the quadruple alliance. 

a IIow go your love affairs ?” said 
she, tying her boquet with a thread of 
gold. 

u They are dying,” said Bussy. 
u Good ! thev are wounded, and 
are swooning,” said Saint-Luc, u but 
I will wager that you will sooj 
them to themselves Joan.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


405 


<v Come,” said she, “ show me the | 
wound.” 

“ In two words here it is,” said 
Saint-Luc, “ Monsieur de Bussy does 
not love to smile on Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, and has formed the de- 
sign of withdrawing.” 

“ And of leaving Diana with him ?” 
said Joan in affright. 

Bussy, alarmed by this first demon- 
stration, added, 

“ Oh ! Madame, Saint-Luc did not 
tell you that I desire to die.” 

Jeanne looked at him for a moment 
with a sort of pity, which was not 
strictly evangelical. 

“ Poor Diana !” she murmured. 

“ Love, then. Decidedly all men 
are ungrateful.” 

“Good!” said Saint-Luc, “that 
is my wife’s moral.” 

“ Ungrateful ! I !” cried Bussy, 
“ because I fear to debase my love by 
subjecting to the cowardly practices 
of hypocrisy.” 

“ Ah ! Monsieur, that is but a flim- 
sy pretext,” said Joan. u If you 
were still in love, you would fear but 
one kind of debasement, that of being 
loved no longer.” 

“ Ah ! ah !’’ said Saint-Luc, 
“ open your purse, my dear fellow.” 
“ But, Madame,” said Bussy af- 
fectionately, “ there are sacrifices 
such as — ” 

“Not a word more. Confess that 
you love Diana no longer. That 
would be more worthy of a brave 
man.” 

Bussy turned pale at the bare idea. 
“ You dare not tell her so. Well ! 
I will tell her.” 

“ Madame ! Madame !” 

“You are pleasant persons, you 
men, truly ! with your sacrifices — and 
we, do we make no sacrifices ? What ! 
to expose herself to be murdered by 
that tiger De Monsoreau, to preserve 
all his rights from a man by a display 
of power, of will, whereof Sampson 
or llannibal would be incanable — to 
tame that ferocious beast of Mars, in 
order to tie him to the car of Mon- 
sieur the triumphant victor — is not 


that heroism ! Oh ! 1 vow that Di- 
ana is sublime ; and I would not do a 
quarter of what she does every day.” 

“ I thank you,” replied Saint-Luc, 
with a reverential bow, which made 
Joan burst into a fit of laughter. 

Bussy still hesitated. 

“ And he reflects!” cried Joan 
“ He does not fall on his knees, he 
does not recite his mea culpa” 

“ You are right,” replied Bussy, 
“ I am only a man, that is to say only 
an imperfect creature, inferior to the 
most ordinary woman.” 

“It is very fortunate,” answered 
Joan, “ that you are convinced of it.” 
“ What do you command me to 
do?” 

“ To go at once and pay a visit” — 
“ To Monsieur de Monsoreau?” 

“ Ah ! who spoke to you of that ? 
To Diana.” 

“ But it appears to me that they 
never are apart.” 

“When you used to go and see 
Madame de Barbezieux so often, had 
she not always that great ape near 
her, which used to bite you because 
he was jealous ?” 

Bussy began to laugh, Saint-Luc 
imitated him, Joan followed their ex- 
ample ; it was a burst of genuine hi- 
larity, which summoned to the win- 
dows all the courtiers who were walk- 
ing in the galleries. 

“ Madame,” said Bussy at length, 
“ I am going to the house of Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau. Farewell.” 
And thereupon they parted, Bussy 
having charged Saint-Luc to say 
nothin* of the challenge he had Car- 
ried to the minions. 

He went then immediately to the 
house of Monsieur de Monsoreau, 
whom he found in bed. 

The count uttered a joyous cry 
when he saw him enter. Remy had 
promised him that his wound should 
be cured within three weeks. 

Diana laid a finger on his lips. 
That was her mode of salutation. 

It was now necessary to tell the 
count the whole story of the commis- 
sion with which the Duke of Anjou 


106 DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


had charged Bussy, the visit to the 
court, the uneasiness of the King, 
and the cold manner of the minions. 

Cold manner was the word which 
Bussy used. 

Diana only laughed. 

Monsoreau, all pensive at this 
news, begged Bussy to lean down to 
him, and whispered in his ear : 

“ There are still projects at work, 
are there not ?” 

u I think so,” said Bussy. 
u Believe me,” said Monsoreau, 
u do not compromise yourself for that 
bad man ; I know him. He is per- 
fidious ; I can assure you that he will 
never even hesitate on the brink of a 
treasonable deed.” 

u I know it,” said Bussy, with a 
smile, which recalled to the mind of 
Monsoreau the circumstance in which 
Bussy had suffered by the duke’s 
treachery. 

u Look you,” said Monsoreau, il it 
is only this, that you are my friend, 
and I wish to put you on your guard. 
For the rest, every time that you shall 
find yourself in a difficult position, 
ask my advice.” 

u Monsieur, Monsieur, you must go 
to sleep after the dressing of your 
wound,” cried Remy. u You must 
go to sleep.” 

u Yes, dear doctor. My friend, g° 
and take a turn in the garden with 
Madame de Monsoreau,” said the 
count. u They say the garden is 
charming this year.” 

u At your orders,” replied Bussy. 


CHAPTER XX. 

MONSIEUR DE MONSOREAu’s PRECAU- 
TIONS. 

Saint-Luc was in the right ; Joan 
was in the right, and at the end of 
eight days, Bussy had perceived it, 
and had done them full justice. 

To be a man of olden time would 


have been fine and grand for posteri- 
ty, but it was the same as to be an 
old man, and Bussy, forgetful of Plu- 
tarch, who had ceased to be his favor- 
ite author since love had corrupted 
him ; Bussy, handsome as Alcibiades, 
caring no longer for anything but 
the present time, felt little ambitious 
of a place in history by the side of 
Scipio and Bayard in the days of their 
continence. 

Diana was simpler, more natural, 
as they phrase it now-a-days. She 
abandoned herself to the two instincts 
which the misanthropic Figaro recog- 
nized as innate in the sex, to love 
and to deceive. She had never even 
thought of carrying her opinions on 
that, which Charron and Montagne 
call honesty , to the length of philoso- 
phic speculation. To love Bussy was 
her logic, to belong to Bussy only 
was her moral, to shiver through her 
whole body at the mere contact of his 
hand touching hers was her metaphy- 
sics. 

Monsieur de Monsoreau, a fort- 
night had already elapsed, since the 
occurrence of his accident — Monsieur 
de Monsoreau we say, was improving 
daily. He had escaped the fever, 
thanks to the application of cold wa- 
ter, that new remedy which fortune 
or Providence had discovered to Am- 
brose Pare, when he underwent a great 
shock. He learned that Monsieur the 
Duke d’ Anjou had recently arrived at 
Paris with his mother, and his Ange- 
vins. The count had good reason to 
be disquieted, for, on the day after 
his arrival, the prince, under the pre- 
text of inquiring after his health, 
presented himself at his mansion in 
the Rue des Petits Peres. There is no 
method of shutting the doors against 
a Royal Highness who takes so ten- 
der an interest in your health. Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau received tb 
prince, and the prince was charming 
polite to the Master of the St 
hounds, and still more so to his T 
As soon as the prince was 
Monsieur de Monsoreau called 
leaned on her arm, and in t 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


407 


Remy’s outcries walked three times | 
round his arm-chair. 

After this feat he seated himself 
again in the same arm-chair around 
which he had traced, as we described, 
a triple line of circumvallation. His 
face wore a very well satisfied expres- 
sion, and Diana conjectured from his 
smile that he was meditating some 
sullen trick. 

But this belongs to the private 
history of the house of Monsoreau ; 
we will return, therefore, to the arrival 
of the Duke of Anjou, to whom be- 
longs the epic portion of this book. 

It was not, as may well be imagin- 
ed, an indifferent day to spectators, 

that day on which Francis of Valois 
*• 

returned to the Louvre. 

This is what they observed. Much 
haughtiness on the part of the King, 
much lukewarmness on the part of 
the Queen-mother, and a sort of hum- 
ble insolence on the part of che Duke 
of Anjou, which seemed to say, 
u Why the devil did you ^eeall me 
if you show me so evil a countenance 
on my return ?” 

All this reception was seasoned by 
the fiery and flaming looks of Mes- 
sieurs de Livarot, de Riberac, and de 
Antraquet, who, warned by.Bussy of 
that which was to take place, were 
anxious to let their adversaries un- 
derstand, that if there should be any 
delay to the combat, the delay would 
'• emanate from them, 
hicot, on that Yay, went oftener 
,nd fro than did Caesar on the eve 
ie battle of Pharsalia. 

Vhen all fell back into a dead calm. 
On the day following his return to 
Louvre the Duke of Anjou paid a 
it to the wounded man. 

Monsoreau, who was informed of 
e smallest particulars of the duke’s 
terview with the King, his brother, 
ressed the Duke of Anjou both by 
s voice and manner in order to re- 
tin him in the most hostile disposi- 
ons. 

Then as he still continued to im- 
prove, when the duke left, he took 
is wife’s arm agam, and, instead of 


walking three times around his arm- 
chair, walked once around his room. 

After this he sat down with greater 
satisfaction than before. 

That same evening Diana informed 
Bussy that Monsieur de Monsoreau 
was certainly meditating something 
extraordinary. 

A moment afterward Bussy and 
Monsoreau were left alone. 

u Ah ! when I reflect,” said Mon- 
soreau to Bussy, u that this prince, 
who affects such regard for me, is in 
truth my mortal enemy, and that it 
is he who set on Saint-Luc to assas- 
sinate me !” 

u Oh ! assassinate!” said Bussy. 
u Take care what you say, Monsieur 
le Comte. St. Luc is a good gentle- 
man, and you confess yourself that 
you provoked him, that you drew 
your sword the first, and that you 
were wounded in fighting him.” 

u Agreed. But it is not the less 
true for that, he acted agreeably to 
the instructions of Monsieur the 
Duke d’ Anjou.” 

u Listen,” said Bussy, U I know 
the duke, and more especially I know 
Saint-Luc ; I ought to say to you that 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc is entirely a 
King’s man, and not at all a prince’s 
man. Ah, if your sword thrust had 
come from Livarot or Antraquet or 
Riberac, I should say nothing, but 
from Saint-Luc” — 

u You do not know the history of 
France so well as I know it, my dear 
Monsieur de Bussy,” replied Monso- 
reau, obstinate in his own opinion. 

Bussy might have replied to him 
that if he was not well acquainted with 
the history of France, he was at least 
perfectly well acquainted with that 
of Anjou, and especially of that part 
of Anjou in which Meridor is situated. 

At length Monsoreau was well 
enough to go down stairs and walk in 
the garden. 

u That will do,” said he, as he 
came up stairs again. u This eve- 
ning we will change our residence ” 

u Wherefore so ?” saidRemy. u Do 

•> 

you not find the air agreeable in the 


408 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Rue des Petits Peres, or do you want 
amusement ?” . 

u On the contrary,” said Monso- 
reau, u I have too much amusement. 
Monsieur d ’Anjou tires me out with 
his visits. He always brings with 
him some thirty gentlemen, and the 
jingling of spurs jars upon my nerves 
horribly.” 

“ But whither will you go ?” 
u I have ordered my small house in 
the Rue des Tournelles to be pre- 
pared.” 

Bussy and Diana, for Bussy was 
still there, exchanged a glance of 
amorous recollection. 

u What, that shell of a place ?” 
said Remy, hastily and rashly. 

u Ah ! ah ! do you know it ?” said 
Monsoreau. 

u Pardieu /” said the young man. 
u I should like to know who does not 
know all the habitations of Monsieur 
the Grand-Huntsman of France ; es- 
pecially when one has lived in the 
Rue Beautreillis ?” 

Monsoreau, according to his cus- 
tom, began to turn some vague sus- 
picion through his mind. 

u Yes, yes, I will go thither,” said 
he, u and I shall be well then. One 
cannot receive above four persons 
there at the utmost. It is a perfect 
fortress, and from the window one can 
see those who are coming to visit you 
at three hundred paces distance.” 
u So that ?” — asked Remy. 
u So that one can avoid seeing 

V y 

those whom he does not desire to see. 
Especially when he is well.” 

Bussy bit his lips. He was afraid 
that the time would come when Mon- 
soreau would avoid him in his turn. 

Diana sighed. She remembered 
that she had seen Bussy for the first 
time in that little house, wounded, 
and fainting on her bed. 

Remy pondered awhile, yet after 
all he was the first to speak. 
u You cannot do it,” said he. 

“ And wherefore not, if you please, 
Monsieur the doctor ?” 

u Because the Grand Huntsman of 
France has receptions to make, ser- 


vants to nfaintain, and equipages to 
keep up. That he may have a palace 
for his hounds is very possible ; that 
he should have a kennel for himself, 
is impossible.” 

u Hum,” replied Monsoreau, in a 
tone which was intended to convey — 
that is very true. 

u Moreover,” said Remy, u for I 
am physician to the mind as well as 
to the body, it is not your sojourn 
here which disturbs you.” 
u What is it then ?” 
u It is that of Madame.” 
u Well.” 

u ^ive the countess her sepa- 

rate 

u self from her !” cried 

Mor ng on her a glance, 

uth, there was more 

an lovf-:. 

u e yourself from your 

office your resignation as 

Mast t ag-hounds. I think 

that ' vise to do so, for in 

truth ther perform or not 

perfo v ; r es. If you do not 
perfo 1 will displease tho 

King e perform them — ” 

u I t which it shall be 

necest . ’ said Monsoreau, 

with 1 d set, u but I will 

not qi he uo a ess.” , 

The scarcely finished 

these a great clatter was 

hca* ' u court of voices and 
horse 


in ^ 


rage 


Moi 
“T1 
“ Y 


I'i ; 


>' ‘ *•» a ?y) . r 

A . >-■ ■ * » 


going Vo o. 

The young in i e- 
before, thanks to the prl 
princes have of enterings 
the duke entered the r 

Monsoreau was upr n • o , 
he saw that the first a- 

cis was for Diana. 

Ere lon^, the er js of 

the prince were li . more 

clearly than bef ht Di- 
ana one of tlir js, such 

as those pat j artists, 


who rendere' 


age which. 


•THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


409 




in spite of the slowness of their pro- 
duction, produced more masterpieces 
than this present time, wrought at 
the rate of three or four in a lifetime. 

It was a charming poniard, with a 
hilt of chiselled gold. That hilt 
was a flask. On the blade, there ran 
a whole chase engraved with marvel- 
lous talent ; hounds, horses, hunters, 
game, trees and sky, were blent in a 
harmonious confusion, which compel- 
led the eye to dwell long on that blade 
of gold and azure. 

u Let me see it,” said Monsoreau, 
who was afraid that there might be 
a love-letter concealed in the hilt. 

The prince, however, anticipated 
this fear by separating the blade from 
the hilt.' 

u To you who are a hunter,’’ he 
said, u the blade ; to the countess, the 
hilt. Good day, Bussy. You are an 
intimate friend of the count’s now, 
hey ?” 

Diana blushed. 

Bussy, on the contrary, remained 
perfectly self-possessed. 

u Monseigneur,” said he, u you 
forget that your Highness commanded 
me this morning to come and learn 
the news of Monsieur de Monsoreau. 
I have, as usual, obeyed the orders of 
your Highness.” 

u That is true,” said the duke, and 
with the words he went and sat down 
beside the countess, and spoke to her 
in a low voice. 

u Count,” said he, at the end of a 
moment, u it is atrociously hot here. 
I see that the countess is smothering; 
I am going therefore to offer her my 
arm, to take a turn in the garden.” 

The husband and the lover ex- 
changed angry glances. 

Diana, invited to go down stairs, 
arose and laid her hand on the prince’s 
arm . 

u Give me your arm,” said Monso- 
reau to Bussy. 

And Monsoreau went down the 
staircase after his wife. 

u Ah ! ah !” said the duke, u it 
seems to me that you are getting on 
very well.” 


u Yes, Monseigneur, and I hope to 
be able ere long to accompany Ma- 
dame de Monsoreau wherever she 
shall go.” 

u Good ; but in the meantime you 
must take care not to tire yourself.” 
Monsoreau felt himself how right 
was this recommendation of the 
prince. He sat down in a spot from 
which he could observe all that pass- 
ed, without losing sight of them for 
an instant. 

u Look you, count,” said he to 
Bussy. u If you were very amiable, 
you would escort Madame de Monso- 
reau to my small house near the Bas- 
tille this very evening. I would ra- 
ther have her there than here, in truth 
Snatched from the claws of this 
vulture at Meridor, I will not allow 
her to be devoured by him here in 
Paris.” 

u Not so, Monsieur,” said Remy 
to his master. u Not so, Monsieur, 
you must not accept it.” 

u And wherefore not ?” asked Bussy 
u Because you belong to Monsieur 
d’ Anjou, and because Monsieur d’An- 
jou would never pardon you for help- 
ing Monsieur de Monsoreau to play 
him such a trick.” 

u What matters that to me ?” cried 
the young man impetuously, when a 
j glance from Remy instructed him to 
hold his peace. 

Monsoreau reflected for a moment. 
u Remy is right,” he said at length, 
u it is not from you that I must ask 
such a service ; I will go myself and 
conduct her thither, for to-morrow or 
the day after to-morrow, I shall be in 
condition to live there myself.” 
u Madness,” said Bussy! u You 
will lose your office.” 

u Possibly I may,” said the count, 
u but I shall keep my wife.” And 
he accompanied the words by a frown 
which made Bussy sigh. 

In fact, that very evening, the 
count conducted his wife to the house 
in the street des Tournelles, already 
well known to our readers. 

Remy assisted the patient to instal 
himself therein. 


410 


DIANA OF MERIDOR. 


4 


Then, as he was a man capable of 
any extent of devotion, as he per- 
ceived how, in that narrow and con- 
fined dwelling, Bussy would have the 
utmost need of him to serve him in 
his menaced passion, he drew near to 
Gertrude, who began by beating, and 
ended by pardoning him. 

Diana resumed her chamber, situat- 
ed in the front of the house, the 
chamber with the portrait and the bed 
of white damask and gold 


A single corridor alone sepaiated 
that chamber from Monsoreau’s apart- 
ment. 

Bussy tore out his hair by hands- 
ful. Saint- Luc swore that rope-lad- 
ders had reached their utmost perfec- 
tion, and that they admirably suppli- 
ed the want of stairs. Monsoreau 
rubbed his hands and smiled, as he 
thought of the Duke of Anjou’s rage 
and vexation. 


4 


DIANA OF MERIDOR 


» 


OR, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


0 

PART VI. 


CHAPTER I . 

A VISIT TO THE HOUSE DES TOUR- 

NELLES. 

Over-excitement supplies in some 
men the deficiency of real passion, 
as hunger gives the wolf and the hyena 
the appearance of courage. 

It was under the impression of a 
sentiment of this nature, that the 
Duke of Anjou, whose vexation can- 
not he described, when he learned 
that Diana was no longer at Meridor, 
had returned to Paris. On his return 
he was almost in love with that wo- 
man, and that precisely because she 
was taken away from him. 

It was the consequence of this, 
that his hatred to Monsoreau — a ha- 
tred which bore date from the day on 
which he learned that the count had 
betrayed him — it was the conse- 
quence of this, we say, that his ha- 
tred had changed its character, hav- 
ing become a sort of fury, which was 
so much the more dangerous, in that, 
being aware by experience of the 
count’s energetic character, he was 
ready to strike without exposing him- 
self to receive a blow. 

On the other hand, he had by no 
means renounced his political hopes ; 
far otherwise ; for the certainty which 
he had acquired of his own impor- 


tance had elevated him in his own 
eyes. Scarcely had he returned, 
therefor^, *to Paris, before he recom- 
menced his dark and subterranean 
machinations. The moment was fa- 
vorable ; a good number of those wa- 
vering conspirators, who ever follow 
success, reassured by the sort of tri- 
umph which the King’s weakness and 
the craft of Catherine had given to 
the Angevins, were eager to join the 
Duke of Anjou: — connecting thus by 
imperceptible but powerful threads, 
the prince’s cause with that of the 
Guises, who kept themselves prudent- 
ly in the dark, maintaining a silence 
which Chicot considered seriously 
alarming. 

For the rest, the Duke politically 
unbosomed himself to Bussy, but it 
was a hypocriiical friendship and no 
more. The prince was vaguely dis- 
turbed at having seen the young man 
at the house of Monsoreau, and held 
a rancor against him on account of 
the confidence which Monsoreau, so 
distrustful toward all others, reposed 
in him. He was alarmed also by the 
joy which beamed from the face of 
Diana, by those fresh colors which ren- 
dered her so desirable, so adorable as 
she was. The prince knew that 
flowers gain their hues and their per- 
fumes from the sunshine only, and 
woman only from love. Diana was 
evidently happy, and to the prince, 
always malevolent and careworn, the 


412 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


happiness of another appeared an act 
of hostility. 

Born a prince, become powerful by 
dark and tortuous means, determined 
to make use of force, whether for his 
loves or his revenges, since force had 
succeeded in his case ; and more- 
over, well counselled by Aurilly, the 
Duke thought it would be ridiculous 

o 

and disgraceful, that he should be 
stopped short of his desires by obsta- 
cles so absurd as the jealousy of a 
husband, or the repugnance of a wo- 
man. 

One day he had slept badly, and 
had passed the night in pursuing 
those evil dreams which assail us dur- 
ing a feverish sleep, and feeling that 
he had risen to the pitch of his excite- 
ment, he ordered his equipage, to go 
and visit Monsoreau. * 

Monsoreau had gone, as the reader 
knows, to the house des Tournelles. 

The prince smiled at this announce- 
ment. It was the farce to the come- 
dy of Meridor. He inquired, but for 
form’s sake only, where the house was 
situated. He was told that it was 
on the Place Saint- Antoine. 

u Since he is at the Tournelles, ” 
said he, turning round to Bussy who 
accompanied him, u let us go to the 
Tournelles/’ 

The escort resumed its march, and 
ere long the whole of that quarter was 
in a disturbance caused by the pre- 
sence of twenty-four fine gentlemen, 
who composed the ordinary train of 
the prince, and who had each two 
lackeys and three horses. 

The prince well knew the house 
and the door. Bussy knew them as 
well as he. They both stopped before 
the door, entered the alley and ascend- 
ed the stairs ; only the prince en- 
tered the apartments, while Bussy re- 
mained on the landing. 

The result of this arrangement was, 
that the prince, who appeared to be 
the principal person, saw Monsoreau 
alone, who received him lying on a 
couch, while Bussy was received in the 
arms of Diana, who clasped him very 


tenderly, while Gertrude remained on 
the watch. 

Monsoreau, naturally pale, became 
actually livid, when he saw the prince. 
He was his terrible vision. 

u Monseigneur,” said he, shivering 
with spite, u Monseigneur, in this 
poor house! In truth, it is too great 
an honor for a person of so small ac- 
count as I.” 

The irony was visible, for the count 
scarce took pains to disguise it. 

The prince, however, did not ap- 
pear to remark it, but approaching the 
convalescent with a smile, 

u Wherever I have a friend in suf- 
fering,” said he, u thither will I go 
to inquire after him.” 

u In truth, prince, your Highness 
has, 'I believe, said it.” 

u I have said it, my dear count, 
but how are you ?” 

u A great deal better, my lord, I 
come and go, and in eight days there 
will be no appearance left of my in- 
disposition.” 

u Did your physician recommend 
the air of the Bastille to you ?” asked 
the prince, in the most natural voice 
in the world. 

u Yes, Monseigneur.” 
u Were you not well in the Rue 
des Petits P&res ?” 

u No, Monseigneur, I saw too much 
company, and that company brought 
too much noise in its train.” 

The count pronounced these words 
with a degree of firmness, which uidl 
not escape the attention of the prince, 
yet for all that, he did not appear to 
notice it. 

u But you have no garden here.” 
u The garden did me harm, Mon- 
seigneur,” replied Monsoreau. 

u But where did you walk, my dear 
fellow?” 

u It was exactly that, Monseigneur, 
I never did walk.” 

The prince bit his lips and threw 
himself back in his chair. 

u Do you know,” said he, after a 
moment’s silence, u that they are 
asking your office of Master of the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


413 


Stag-hounds very urgently of the 
King ?” 

u Bah ! under what pretext ?” 
u A great many persons assert that 
you are dead.” 

u Oh ! Monseigneur, I am certain 
I can answer for it that I am not.” 
u For my part, I will answer for 
nothing. You are burying yourself, 
my dear fellow, therefore I suppose 
that you are dead.” 

Monsoreau bit his lips in his turn. 
u What would you have, Monsei- 
gneur ?” said he. u I will lose my 
office . ” 

u Will you, indeed ?” 
iL Yes, there are things which I pre- 
fer to my office.” 

u Ah !” said the prince, u that is 
very disinterested on your part.” 
u I am so constituted, Monsei- 
gneur.” 

u In that case, since you are so 
constituted, you will not object to the 
King knowing it.” 

a Who should tell him ?” 
a By’r lady ! If he question me, I 
must relate the conversation to him ?” 
u Upon my honor, Monseigneur, 
if everything that is said in Paris, 
were repeated to his Majesty, his two 
ears would not be enough to hear it 
all.” 

u What is said in Paris, then, Mon- 
sieur ?” asked the prince, turning round 
as quickly as if a viper had bitten him. 

Monsoreau saw that the conversa- 
tion had taken a turn very gently, 
which was a little too serious for a 
convalescent, who had not the full 
liberty of action. He subdued the 
passion which was boiling in the 
depths of his soul, and assuming an 
indifferent countenance : 

u What can I tell ?” said he. u I, 
a poor paralytic ! Events pass by me, 
and I see but their shadow. If he is 
displeased at my non-performance of 
the duties of my office, he is wrong.” 
u How so ?” 

u Without doubt, my accident” — 
u What of that ?” 

<c Occurred partly by his fault.” 

4< Explain yourself ” 


u Faith ! Monsieur de Saint-Luc. 

✓ 

who gave me his sword thrust, is he 
not one of the King's dearest friends ? 
It is the King who showed him the 
secret pass by which he pinked me, 
and moreover, nothing: tells me that 
it was not the King who very gently 
set him at me.” 

The Duke of Anjou made some- 
thing very nearly resembling a gesture 
of approbation. 

u You are right,” said he. u But 
after all, the King is the King.” 
u Until he be so no longer, is it 
not so?” said Monsoreau. 

The duke shuddered. 
u By the way,” said he, u does not 
Madame de Monsoreau lodge here ?” 
u Monseigneur, she is unwell at this 
moment, or she would have come al- 
ready and presented her very hum- 
ble homage to you.” 
u Unwell ! Poor lady !” 
u Yes, Monseigneur.” 
u The grief of seeing you suffer.” 
u In the first instance, and then the 
fatigue of this removal.” 

u Let us hope that her indisposi- 
tion will be but short, my dear count. 
You have so skilful a physician.” 
And he rose from his seat as he 
spoke. 

u The truth is,” said Monsoreau, 
u that this dear Remy takes admira- 
ble care of me.” 

u Why, that is Bussy ’s physician 
whom you speak of now ?” 

“H e was so ; but the count has 
given him to me,” said Monsoreau. 

u You are extremely intimate with 
Bussy, then.” 

u He is my best, I might almost say 
my only friend,” replied Monsoreau, 
coldly. 

u Farewell, count,” said the prince, 
raisins: the damask curtain which 
covered the door. 

At the same instant, as he was in 
the act of passing his head under the 
tapestry, he fancied that he caught a 
glimpse of a silken gown flitting into 
the next room, and Bussy suddenly 
appeared in the middle of the corri- 
dor. 


414 


DIANA OF ME RID OR; OR, 


Suspicion grew strong in the mind 
of the duke. 

“ We are going,” said he to Bussy. 
Bussy made no reply, but immedi- 
ately went down stairs in order to de- 
sire the escort to be in readiness, 
perhaps also to conceal a slight flush 
which he felt on his brow from the 
eye of the duke. 

The duke, who was left alone on the 
landing-place, attempted to penetrate 
the corridor in which he had seen the 
silk gown disappear. 

But as he turned about, he observed 
that M jnsoreau had followed him, and 
was standing erect, pale and leaning 
against the casing of the door on the 
threshold of which he stood. 

“ Your Highness has mistaken your 
way,” said the count coldly. 

“ That is true,” stammered the 
duke. “Thanks!” 

And he went down stairs with fury 
in his heart. 

During the whole ride homeward, 
which lasted for a considerable time, 
Bussy and he did not exchange a 
word. 

Bussy left the duke at the door of 
his hotel. 

When the duke had entered, and 
was alone in his private study, Au- 
rilly glided into it mysteriously. 

“ Well,” said the duke, when he 
perceived him, “ I have been jeered 
and fooled by the husband.”. 

“ And perhaps by the lover also,” 
said the musician. 

u What do you say?” 

“ The truth, your Highness.” 

“ Proceed, then.” 

“ Listen, Monseisrneur. I trust 

7 O 

that you will pardon me, for it was 
all in your Highness’ service.” 

“ Go on. It is agreed. I pardon 
you beforehand.” 

“ Well, I played the spy from a 
garret of a shed in the court, after 
you had gone up stairs.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! and you saw ?” 

“ A woman’s gown appear. The 
woman stooped forward. I saw two 
arms entwined about her neck, and as 
my ear is very quick and practised, I 


heard very distinctly the sound of a 
long and tender kiss.” 

“ But who was the man?” asked 
the duke. “ Did you recognize him ?” 
“ I cannot recognize arms, Mon- 
seigneur,” said Aurilly. “ Arms have 
no face.” 

u Yes. But one may recognize 
gloves.” 

“ In fact, I did fancy—” 

“ That you recognized them, is it 
not so ? Come.” 

“It is but a presumption, after 
all.” 

“ Never mind. Tell it all tho 

same.” 

“ Well, Monseigneur, it seemed to 
me that they were Monsieur de Bus- 
sy ’s gloves.” 

“ Gloves of buff leather embroider- 
ed with gold, were they not ?” cried 
the duke, from before whose eyes 
error seemed to have passed away, 
and left the truth in plain view. 

“ Of buff leather embroidered with 
gold,” replied Aurilly. 

“ Ah, Bussy. Yes, Bussy. It is 
Bussy !” cried the duke again. “ Blind 
that I was, or rather, no, I was not 
blind. Only I could not believe in 
such audacity !” ; 

u Beware,” said Aurilly, “ it seems 
to me that your Highness is talking 
very loud.” 

“ Bussy!” repeated the duke once 
again, as he recalled to his mind a 
thousand circumstances which at the 
time passed unnoticed, but which now 
passed again before his eyes in mag- 
nified proportions. 

“ Nevertheless, Monseigneur,” said 
Aurilly, “ it will not do to be con- 
vinced on too slight grounds ; might 
not a man have been concealed in 
Madame de Monsoreau’s chamber?” 
“ Certainly. But Bussy, Bussy, 
who was in the corridor, must have 
seen that man.” 

“ It is true, Monseigneur.” 

“ And then the gloves, the gloves.” 
“ It is true again. And, moreover, 
beside the sound of the kiss, I also 
overheard — ” 

“ What ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


u Two words.” 
u What were they ?” 

44 4 To-morrow evening.’ ” 

44 O ! Mon Dieu !” 

44 So that, if we choose, Monsei- 
gneur, to recommence that exercise a 
little, which we used to take a little 
\shile since, well, then we shall be 
sure.” 

44 Aurilly, to-morrow evening we 
will recommence it.” 

44 Your Highness knows that I am 
at your orders.” 

‘ 4 Well. Ah, Bussy!” repeated 
the duke, between his teeth, 44 Bussy 
a traitor to his lord ! Bussy, the 
terror of all ! Bussy, the honest 
man ! Bussy, who will not have me 
King of France ?” 

And the duke, smiling with infer- 
nal joy, dismissed Aurilly, in order 
to be able to reflect at his ease. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE SPIES. 

Aurilly and the Duke of Anjou mu- 
tually kept their word. The duke 
kept Bussy about his person all that 
day, in order to observe every step he 
took. 

Bussy asked no better than to pay 
court to the prince all day long, since 
by that means he had his evening 
free. It was his own method, and 
he put it into execution without so 
much as one after thought. 

At ten o’clock in the evening he 
wrapped himself in his mantle, took 
his ladder under his arm, and walked 
toward the Bastille. 

The duke, who did not know that 
Bussy had a ladder in his antecham- 
ber, who could not believe that any 
one would walk thus alone in the 
streets of Paris, the duke, whe thought 
that Bussy would return to his hotel 
to get a horse and a servant, lost ten 
minutes in preparation. During these 


4\l 

ten minutes Bussy, active and in love, 
had already performed three quarters 
of the distance. • 

Bussy was fortunate, as bold men 
generally are. He had no awkward 
encounters on the road, and, as he 
approached, he saw the light in the 
window. 

This was the signal agreed on be- 
tween himself and Diana. 

He cast his ladder to the balcony ; 
that ladder, provided with six grap- 
nels, placed in opposite directions, 
could not fail to catch hold of some- 
thing. 

At the sound, Diana extinguished 
her light, and opened the window, to 
secure the ladder. 

The thing was done in a moment. 

Diana cast her eyes around the 
place, dived with her keen glances 
into every nook and corner, but the 
place appeared entirely deserted 

Then she made a sign to Bussy that 
he might come up. 

At that sign, Bussy darted up the 
ladder, two steps at a time ; there 
were ten steps, it was a matter of five 
seconds. 

The moment had been fortunately 
chosen, for while Bussy was climbing 
to the window, Monsieur de Monso- 
reau, after having listened patiently 
at his wife’s door for above ten mi- 
nutes, descended the staircase, pain- 
fully leaning upon the arm of a con- 
fidential valet, who supplied the place 
of Remy well, as often as there was 
no call for dressings or medical at- 
tendance. 

This double manoeuvre, which one 
would have supposed to be combined 
by some noble strategist, was execut- 
ed in this fashion, so that Monsoreau 
opened the street door, at the very 
moment in which Bussy drew up his 
ladder, and Diana shut her window. 

Monsoreau found himself in the 
street ; but we have said that the 
street was deserted, and the count 
saw nothino-. 

c 

44 Can I have been misinformed ?’ 7 
said Monsoreau to his valet. 

44 ]N T o, Monseigneur,” replied he 


416 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u I have just left the Hotel d’ Anjou, | 
and the head groom, who is a friend 
of mine, told me positively, that the 
Duke had ordered two horses for this 
evening. Now, Monseigneur, per- 
haps it was to go somewhere else.” 

u Whither else should he go ?” said 
Monsoreau gloomily. 

The count was like all other jea- 
lous persons, who cannot believe that 
the rest of humanity have anything 
else to do than to torment them in 
particular. 

He looked around him a second 
time. 

iC Perhaps I should have done better 
to remain in Diana’s chamber,” he 
murmured. u But perhaps they have 
signals of correspondence. She might 
have given him notice of my presence, 
and I should have known nothing of 
it. It is better far to watch from 
without, as we determined. Come, 
lead me to this hiding-place from 
which you pretend that we can see 
everything without being seen.” 

u Come, Monseigneur,” said the 
valet. 

Monsoreau advanced, half resting 
on the arm of his servant, half lean- 
ing against the wall. 

In fact, at twenty or thirty paces 
from the door, in the direction of the 
Bastille, there lay an enormous pile of 
stones, the ruins of demolished houses, 
which served as a fortification for the 
children of the neighborhood, when 
they waged sham combats, the popu- 
lar relics of the Armagnacs and the 
Burgundians. 

In the middle of this pile of stones, 
the valet had contrived a sort of den, 
capable of receiving and concealing 
two persons with ease. 

He stretched a cloak on the stones, 
and Monsoreau crouched down upon 
it. 

The valet placed himself at the 
count’s feet. A musquetoon ready 
loaded, was placed by their side in 
readiness for any event. 

The valet was about to make readv 

%/ 

the match of the weapon, when Mon- 
soreau stopped him 


u One moment,” said he, u there 
will be time enough. He, on whose 
scent we are, is royal game, and it is 
pain of the halter against all who lay 
hands on him.” 

And his eyes, ardent as those of the 
wolf ambushed beside the sheepfold, 
wandered from Diana’s windows into 
the depths of the faubourg, and from 
the depths of the faubourg to the ad- 
jacent streets ; for he desired to sur- 
prise, and feared to be surprised. 

Diana had prudently closed her 
thick curtains of tapestry, so that a 
luminous ray peeped out only around 
their edges, giving the only sign that 
there was any life in that-house other- 
wise black and dismal. 

Monsoreau had not been ten mi- 
nutes in ambush, when two horses 
made their appearance at the outlet of 
the Rue Saint- Antoine. 

The valet said nothing, but he 
stretched out his hand in the direc- 
tion of the two horses. 

u Yes,” said Monsoreau, u I see.” 
The two cavaliers set foot to earth 

9 

at the corner of the Hotel des Tour- 
nelles, and fastened their horses to 
iron rings fastened to the wall for 
that very purpose. 

u Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, u I 
believe that we have come too late. 
He will have set out directlv from 
your hotel ; he had ten minutes’ start 
of you. He will have entered.” 
u Be it so,” said the prince. u If 
we did not see him enter, we shall see 
him come out.” 

u Yes. But when ?” said Aurilly. 
“ Whenever we please,” said the 
prince. 

u Would it be too much curiosity 
to inquire how you reckon on effect- 
ing that, Monseigneur ?” 

u Nothing more easy. We have 
only to knock at the door, either of 
us — that is to say, you for example, 
under the pretext of coming to inquire 
for Monsieur de Monsoreau. All 
lovers are alarmed by noise. Then as 
you enter by the door, he will issue by 
the window, and I, remaining without, 
shall see him unkennelled.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


417 


“ And the Monsoreau ?” | window, the prince had returned to 

u What the devil should he say? | his original project, and was prepar- 
He is my friend. I am anxious about j ing to conceal himself among therub- 
him ; 1 send to inquire for his health, bish, while Aurilly should go and 
because I thought he looked ill to- knock at the door, when suddenly, as 
day. Nothing can be more simple.” if he had forgotten the distance be- 
u Nothing’ can be more ingenious, tween himself and the prince, Aurilly 
Monseigneur,” said D’ Aurilly. j laid his hand quickly on the Duke of 

u Can you hear what they say? ’ Anjou^s arm. 
asked Monsoreau of his valet. ! u Well, Monsieur,” said the prince, 

u No, Monseigneur,” said the man. astonished, u what is it now?” 
u But if they continue talking, we i u Come, Monseigneur,” said Au- 
ahall not fail to hear them, since they 
are coming in this direction.” 

u Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, 

“here is a pile of stones which ap- 


to conceal 


rilly. 

u But to what end is all this ?” 

“ Do you see nothing shining there 
to the left ? Come, Monseigneur, 
come.” 

u In truth I do see something like 


pears made on purpose 
your Highness.” 

“ Yes. But wait a moment, there a spark of fire in the middle of those 
may perhaps be some means of seeing stones.” 

through the chinks of the window.” j “ It is the match of a musket or 
In fact, as we have stated, Diana arquebuss, Monseigneur.” 
had lighted her lamp anew, or brought u Ah ! ah !” said the duke, u and 
it nearer to the window, and a slender who the devil can be in ambush there ?’* 
light streamed through the curtains. u Some friend, or some servant of 

O J 

The Duke and Aurilly turned, and Bussy. Let us go away, we will 
returned, about the house for more j make a circuit and return by the other 
than ten minutes, hoping to find some j way. The servant will give the 
place whence they might see into the j alarm, and we shall see Bussy descend 
interior of the room. j from the window.” 

During these different evolutions, | u Indeed, you are right,” said the 
Monsoreau was boiling with impa- duke. u Come.” 
tience, and frequently laid his hand They two together crossed the 
on the barrel of the musket, which street to the place where they had 
was colder than the hand which tied their horses, 
grasped it. j “ They are going away,” said the 

u Oh ! shall I endure this?” he valet, 
muttered. “Shall I devour this u Yes,” said Monsoreau, “ did you 
affront likewise ? No, no. So much recognize them ?” 
the worse, my patience is at an end. ! “ Why, it seems to me that they 

Mordieu ! that I should be able are the prince and Aurilly.” 
neither to sleep nor to wake, nay, that “ Precisely so. But presently I 
I should not have the privilege of shall be surer yet.” 
being ill in peace, because a shameful “ What is Monseigneur about to 
caprice has taken up its lodging in do ?” 
the idle brain of this miserable prince, j u Come.” 

No — I am not a complaisant valet. I During this time, the duke and 
I am the Count of Monsoreau, and let Aurilly had made a circuit by tke 
him come this way, and I, by my Rue Sainte-Catherine, with the in- 
honor ! I will blow his brains out. j tention of passing along the snie ot 
Light the match — Rene, light the the gardens, and of returning by the 


match.” 


boulevard of the Bastille 


At this precise moment, seeing that Monsoreau returned into the house, 
it was impossible to look into the and ordered his litter to be prepared. 


418 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


That which the duke had predicted | 
fell out. The noise which Monsoreau 
made, gave Bussy the alarm. The 
light was again extinguished, the 
window was re-opened, the rope-lad- 
der was fixed, and Bussy, to his great 
regret, was compelled to fly without 
having seen, like Romeo, the first 
ray of the rising sun, or having heard 
the lark sing. 

At the moment in which he was 
Betting foot on the ground, and in 
which Diana was casting the ladder 
down to him, they saw exactly under 
the fair Diana’s window, a shadow 
suspended between earth and heaven. 
But that shadow vanished almost in- 
stantly by the corner of the Rue 
Saint-Paul. 

u Monsieur,” said the valet, u we 
shall awaken the whole house.” 

u What matters that ?” replied 
Monsoreau, furious. u I am the mas- 
ter here, I think, and surely have the 
right of doing in my own house, that 
which the Duke of Anjou meant to do 
here.” 

The litter was ready. Monsoreau 
sent to call two of his people who 
lodged in the Rue des Tournelles, and 
when these men, who, since his wound, 
had been used to accompany him, ar- 
rived and took their places at the 
two doors, the machine set out at the 
full trot of two stout horses, and in 
less than a quarter of an hour was at 
the door of the Hotel d’ Anjou. 

The duke and Aurilly had been so 
little while returned that their horses 
were not yet unbridled. 

Monsoreau, who had free admit- 
tance at all times to the prince, ap- 
peared on the door-sill just at the 
moment when the duke, having cast 
his hat into an arm-chair, was ex- 
tending his leg to a valet that he 
might pull off his boot. 

Nevertheless, a valet, who had pre- 
ceded him by a few paces, announced 
Monsieur the Master of the Stag- 
hounds. 

Had a thunderbolt broken the 
windows of the prince’s chamber, he 
could not have been more astonished 


than he was by the announcement 
made to him. 

u Monsieur de Monsoreau !” he ex- 
claimed, with a degree of emotion that 
was displayed at once by the tone of 
his voice, and the expression of his 
face. 

u Yes, Monseigneur. I myself,” 
replied the count, restraining, or 
rather endeavoring to restrain the 
blood which was boiling in his 
arteries. ' 

The effort which he made on him- 
self was so violent, that Monsieur de 
Monsoreau felt his legs give way un- 
der him, and sank into a chair at the 
entrance of the room 

u But,” said the duke, C£ you will 
kill yourself, my dear friend, and at 
this very moment you are so pale, 
that I should not be surprised to sec 
you faint.” 

“ Oh ! no, Monseigneur. I have 
for the moment things far too im- 
portant to communicate to your High- 
ness. Perhaps I may then faint. 
That is quite possible.” 

u Come, speak then, my dear 
count,” said Francis, who was utter- 
ly amazed. 

“ But not before all your people, 1 
suppose,” said Monsoreau. 

The duke sent all his people away. 
Even Aurilly. The two men were 
left alone. 

u Your Highness has just returned 
home ?” asked Monsoreau 
u As you see, count.” 

66 It is imprudent in your Highness 
to go about the streets thus by night.” 
u Who tells you that I have been 
in the streets ?” 

u Faith ! the dust which covers all 
your clothes, Monseigneur.” 

u Monsieur de Monsoreau,” said 
the prince, with an accent which no 
person could possibly misunderstand, 
u do you practise any other trade 
beside that of Grand Huntsman ?” 
u The trade of a spy ? yes, Mon- 
seigneur. All the world practise that 
game, more or less, and I, like the rest. ’ 
u And what does that trade pro 
cure you, Monsieur ?” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


/ 


419 


u 

on.” 


The knowledge of what is going 


u That is curious,” said the prince, 
drawing near to his bell in order to 

O 

be able to summon assistance. 

u Very curious,” said Monsoreau. 
u Then, confide to me that which 
you have to tell me.” 

u I came for that purpose.” 
u You will permit me to sit down.” 
u No irony, Monseigneur, toward 
an humble and faithful friend, such 
as I am, who do not come up at this 
hour, and in this condition of health, 
for any purpose other than to render 
you a signal service. If I am seated, 
Monseigneur, it is that, upon my ho- 
nor, I am unable to stand up.” 

a A service !” exclaimed the duke, 
u a service ?” 


“ Yes.” 
u Speak then.” 

u Monseigneur, I come to you on 
the part of a puissant prince.” 
u Of the King ?” 
u No. Of Monseigneur the Duke 
of Guise.” 

u Ah !” said the prince. u On the 
part of the Duke of Guise. That is 
a different thing. Come nearer, and 
speak low.” 


CHAPTER III. 

HOW MONSIEUR THE DUKE OF ANJOU 
SIGNED, AND HOW, ' AFTER SIGN- 
ING, HE SPOKE. 

There was a momentary silence be- 
tween the Duke of Anjou and Mon- 
soreau. Then breaking silence the first, 
u Well, Monsieur le Comte,” ask- 
ed the duke. u What have you to 
say to me on the part of Messieurs 
de Guise ?” 

u Very many things, Monsei- 
gneur.” 

u Have they written to you then ?” 
u Oh, no ! Messieurs de Guise do not 
write any more since the strange dis- 
appearance of Master Nicolas David.” 


u Have you, then, been co the 
army ?” 

“ No, Monseigneur, it is they who 
are in Paris.” 

u Messieurs de Guise in Paris 
exclaimed the duke. 
u Yes, Monseigneur.” 
u And I have not seen them.” 
u They are too prudent to expose 
themselves, and at the same time to 
expose your Highness.” 

u And I am not informed of it.” 
u Surely you are, Monseigneur, 
since I now inform you.” 

u But what have they come to 
do ?” 

“ They have come to keep the ap- 
pointment you made with them. ” 
u I made an appointment with 
them ?” 

u Certainly. On the very day on 
which your Highness was arrested, 
you received a letter from Messieurs 
de Guise, and sent them a verbal an- 
swer, by myself, that they had only 
to be in Paris from the 31st of May 
to the second of June. It is now the 
31st of May. If you have forgotten 
Messieurs de Guise, Messrs, de Guise, 
as you see, have not forgotten your 
Highness.” 

Francis turned pale. So many 
events had occurred since that day, 
that he had forgotten the appoint- 
ment, all important as it was. 

a It is true,” he said, u but the re- 
lations which existed then between 
myself and Messieurs de Guise now 
exist no longer.” 

u If it be so, Monseigneur, it were 
well to inform them of this ; for I 
fancy they deem otherwise of it.” 
u How so ?” 

u Yes ; perhaps you may consider 
yourself cut loose from them, but they 
think themselves bound to you.” 
u A trick, my dear count. A stra- 
tagem by which a man, such as I, 
does not allow himself to be caught 
twice.’’ 

u And where has Monseigneur been 
caught once, I pray ?” 

u How ? Where have I been 
caught ? In the Louvre, Mordieu /” 


420 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u And was that the fault of Mes- 
sieurs de Guise ?” 

u I do not say so,” muttered the 
duke, u I do not say so. Only I tell 
you that they in no respect aided my 
escape.” 

u It would have been difficult for 
them, seeing that they were in flight 
themselves.” 

u That is true,” muttered the duke. 
u But as soon as you were once in 
Anjou, was not I charged to tell you 
from them, that you might reckon 
upon them in all respects, as they 
could reckon upon you, and that on 
the day when you should march on 
Paris, they would march on it, on 
their side ?” 

u That is again true,” said the 
duke, u but I have not marched on 
Paris.” 

u Surely you have, Monseigneur, 
for you are here.” 

u Yes. But I am in Paris as the 
ally of my brother.” 

u 'Monseigneur will permit me to 
remark that he is something more than 
the ally of the Guises.” 
u What am I, then ?” 
u Monseigneur is their accom- 
plice.” 

The Duke of Anjou hit his lips. 
u And you say they have charged 
you to announce their arrival to me ?” 
u Yes, your Highness, they have 
done me that honor.” 

u But have they not communicated 
to you the motives of their return ?” 
u They have communicated every- 
thing to me, knowing me to be your 
Highness’ man of confidence — their 
motives and their projects.” 

u They have projects, then ? What 
are they ?” 

u The same as ever.” 

“ And do they believe them prac- 
ticable ?” 

u They believe them certain.” 
u And the end of these projects is 
still—” 

The duke stopped short, not daring 
to pronounce the words which should 
naturally have followed those which 
he had iust uttered. 


Monsoreau finished the duke's 
thought. 

u And the end of these projects is 
still to make you King of France, 
Monseigneur ; yes.” 

The duke felt a flush of joy rise to 
his foce. 

u But,” he inquired, u is the mo- 
ment favorable ?” 

u Your wisdom will determine 
that.” 

u My wisdom ?” 

u Yes. Here are the facts, facts 
risible, and not to he refuted.” 
u Let us see them.” 
u The nomination of the Kins: as 
chief of the League, was but a come- 
dy, quickly appreciated, and judged 
as soon as appreciated. Now, at this 
moment, a reaction has taken place, 
and the whole state is revolting 
against the tyranny of the King and 
his creatures. The meeting-houses 
of the Huguenots are so many calls to 
arms ; the churches are places in 
which men curse the King instead of 
praying to God. The army murmurs 
with impatience ; the burghers band 
themselves together. Our emissaries 
bring back continually new signatures 
and new adhesions to the League. 
In a word, the reign of Valois touches 
its termination. In such a crisis the 
Messieurs de Guise desire to choose a 
serious competitor for the throne. 
Now do you renounce the ideas you 
formerly held ?” 

The duke replied not. 
u Well,” asked Monsoreau, u what 
does Monseigneur think of it ?” 
u Faith !” replied the prince, u I 
think” — 

u Monseigneur knows that he can 
explain himself to me with perfect 
frankness.” 

u I think,” said the duke, u that 
my brother has no children ; that af- 
ter him the throne descends naturally 
to me ; that he has very feeble health ; 
wherefore then should I stir myself 
with all these people ? Wherefore 
should I compromise my name, my 
dignity, my affections, in a useless 
rivalry ? Wherefore, in one word, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


421 


should I endeavor to seize danger- 1 
ously what will descend to me with- 
out danger ?” 

u That is precisely where your 
Highness is in error,” replied Mon- 
soreau. u Your brother's throne will 
only descend to you, if you take it. 
Messieurs de Guise cannot be kings 
themselves, but they will let no one 
reign but a king of their making. 
This king, whom they would substi- 
tute for the reigning monarch, they 
did expect would be jM^Highness ; 
but in case of your HigfiBiSs refusing, 
I forewarn you that they will choose 
another.” 

u And who, then,” cried the Duke 
of Anjou, frowning, u who, then, will 
dare to seat himself on the throne of 
Charlemagne ?” 

u A Bourbon in lieu of a Valois. 
That is all ; one son of Saint-Louis in 
lieu of another son of Saint-Louis.” 
u The King of Navarre ?’’ cried 
Francis. 

u Wherefore not ? He is young, 
he is brave. He has no children, it 
is true, but every one is certain that 
he can have them.” 
u He is a Huguenot.” 
u He ! was he not converted at 
Saint-Bartholomew’s r” 

4 Yes. But he has abjured since.” 
u Ah ! Monseigneur, what he did 
for his life, he will do for his throne.” 
u Do they think, then that I will 
not defend my rights, but resign them 
tamely ?” 

u 1 fancy that the case is foreseen.” 
u I will fight them to the last.” 
u Pooh ! They are men born and 
bred to war.” 

u I will put myself at the head of 
the League.” 

u They are the soul of it.’’ 
u I will re-unite myself to my bro- 
ther.” 

a Your brother will be dead.” 
u I will call the kings of Europe to 
my aid.” 

iL The kings of Europe will readily 
make war on kings, but they will look 
twice before they make war upon a peo- 
ple ” 


u What do you mean by a people ?” 
u Messieurs de Guise have resolved 
undoubtedly to take all measures, 
even to constitute states, even to 
make a republic.” 

Francis clasped his hands in inex- 
pressible anguish. 

Monsoreau was frightful with his 
answers, which replied so promptly. 
u A republic ?” he murmured. 
u Oh ! Mon Dieu ! yes. As in 
Switzerland, as in Genoa, as in Ve- 
nice.” 

u But my party will not allow them 
to make a republic thus in France.” 
u Your party?” said Monsoreau. 
u Ah ! Monseigneur, you have been 
so disinterested, so magnanimous, 
that, upon my word, your party at this 
moment consists only of Monsieur de 
Bussy and myself.” 

The Duke could not repress a sin 
ister smile. 

u I am bound hand and foot, 
then,” said he. 

u Nearly so, Monseigneur.” 
u Then, what is the use of their 
coming to me, if I be, as you say, 
stripped of all power.” 

u I mean to say, Monseigneur, that 
without the Messieurs de Guise, you 
can do nothing — that with them you 
can do all things.” 

u I can do all things with them ?” 
u Yes. Say but the word, and 
you are King.” 

The Duke rose, greatly agitated, 
and walked rapidly about the room, 
brushing against everything that 
came in his way, curtains, door-tapes- 
tries, table-covers. At length he 
stopped short in front of Monsoreau. 

u You spoke truly, count,” said 
he, u when you declared that I had 
now but two friends — yourself and 
Bussy.” 

And he pronounced these words 
with a smile of benevolence, which he 
had found time to substitute for his 
pale fury. 

u Therefore,” said Monsoreau, his 
eye radiant with joy. 

“ Therefore, faithful servant,” re- 
plied the Duke, u speak — I listen.” 


422 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u You order it, Monseigneur r” 

“ Yes.” 

u Well. In two words, Monsei- 
gneur, here is the plan.” 

The Duke turned very pale, hut he 
stopped to listen. 

u Eight days hence is Corpus 
Christi day, is it not, Monseigneur ?” 
“ Yes.” 

u The King has been meditating for 
some time past a grand procession on 
that holy day to all the principal 
convents of Paris.” 

u It is his wont every year to 
make such a procession at this sea- 
son.” 

“ Then, as your Highness recollects 
the King is without guards ; or at 
least his guards stop at the door. 
The King stops at each station, kneels 
down there, and says five paters and 
five aves ; — the whole accompanied by 
the seven penitential psalms.” 
u I know all that.” 
u He will go to the Abbey of Saint- 
Genevieve, as to the others.” 
u Unquestionably he will.” 
u Only as an accident will have 
occurred during the night in front of 
the convent” — 
u An accident ?” 

u Yes. A sewer will have fallen 
in during the night.” 

“ Weil?” 

u So that the altar of the station 
will not be under the porch, but in 
the court itself.” 
u I hear.” 

u Mark then. The King will enter. 
Four or five persons will enter with 
him, but after those fou r or five per- 
sons, they will close the gates.” 
u And then ?” — 

u Then,” resumed Monsoreau, 
u your Highness knows the monks 
who will do the honors of the abbey 
to his Majesty ?” 

u They will be the same” — 
u Who were present at your High- 
ness’s consecration ; — precisely.” 
u And will they dare to lay hands 
on the Lord’s anointed ?” 

u Only to give him the tonsure, 
that is all. You know the quatrain ” 


“ The first of three fair crowns, if not the 

best, 

Ungrateful fugitive, away you cast; 

The second totters now in fearful risk ; 

A pair of scissors will confer the last.” 

u Will they dare to do that 
cried the duke, his eye gleaming with 
eager ambition. u Will they dare to 
touch a King on the head ?” 

u Oh ! he will then be a King no 
longer.” 

O 

u How s(^P 

U not h ear ^ mention 

made of IWPother of Saint-Gene- 
vieve, a holy man who performs 
discourses until the time when he 
shall perform miracles ?” 
u Of brother Gorenflot ?” 
u The same.” 

u The same who would preach to 
the League with an arquebuss on his 
shoulder ?’’ 
u The same.” 

u Well ? They will conduct the 
King to his cell. Once there, the 
brother takes it on himself to make 
him sign his abdication. Then when 
he shall have signed it, Madame de 
Montpensier will enter, scissors in 
hand. The scissors are purchased ; 
Madame de Montpensier always 
wears them hanging by her side. 
They are charming scissors, of mas- 
sive gold, exquisitely chiselled. To 
every lord, every honor !” 

Francis remained silent. His false 
eye was dilated, like that of a cat 
watching for its prey in the dark. 

u You understand the rest, Mon- 
seigneur,” continued the count. 
u They announce to the people, that 
the King, experiencing a holy repent- 
ance for his faults, has made a vow 
never again to leave the convent. 
Should any one doubt the reality of the 
vocation, Monsieur the Duke of Guise 
holds the army, Monsieur the Cardi- 
nal holds the church, and Monsieur de 
Mayenne holds the burghers ; and 
with these three powers, one makes 
•the people believe anything he will.” 
‘ ' But I shall be accused of vio- 
lence,” said the duke after an instant 7* 
pause. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


423 


“ You are not bound to be pre- 
sent.” 

“ I shall be looked upon as an 
usurper.” 

“ Monseigneur forgets the abdica- 
tion.” 

“ The King will refuse it.” 

“ It appears that brother Gorenflot 
is not only a very able man, but also 
a verv strong man.” 

“ The plan then is absolutely con- 
cluded.” 

u Absolutely.” 
u And they are noPWraid of my 
denouncing them.” 

“ Not in the least, Monseigneur, 
for in case you should betray them, 
there is another plan not less certain 
than this concluded against you.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” said Francis. 

“ Yes, Monseigneur; but of this 
I have no farther information. For 
I am known too surely for your friend 
to be entrusted with it.” 

“Then I yield, count; but what 
must I do ?” 

“ Approve.” 

“ Well, I do approve ?” 

“ But it is not sufficient to approve 
in words.” 

“ How otherwise can one approve ?” 
“ In writing.” 

“ It is sheer madness to suppose 
that I will consent to that.” 

“ Wherefore not ?” 

, “ Suppose the conspiracy fail.” 

“ Precisely. It is on that very 
account, that Monseigneur’s signature 
is required.” 

“ My name is required then as a 
rampart of defence.” 

u For no other purpose.” 

“ Then I refuse, a thousand times 
I refuse.’’ 

“ You can do so no longer.” 

“ I can no longer refuse ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Are you mad ?” 

“ To refuse, is to betray.” 

“ Wherefore so ?” 

“ Because I asked no better than to 
keep silence, and your Highness com- 
manded me to speak.” 

“Well. Be it so. Let these gen- 


tlemen do as they please, I shall have 
at least chosen which danger of the 
two I will run.” 

u Take care, Monseigneur, that 
you do not choose wrongly.” 

“ I will risk it,” said Francis, 
somewhat moved, but endeavoring to 
preserve his firmness. 

“For your interest, Monseigneur, 
I would advise you not to do so.” 

“ But I compromise myself by 
signing it.” 

“ By refusing to sign it, you do 
worse, you assassinate yourself.” 

Francis shuddered. 

“ They will not dare it,” said he. 

“ They will dare all things, Mon- 
seigneur. The conspirators have ad- 
vanced too far to recede. They must 
succeed at any price, be it what it 
may.” 

The duke fell into a fit of indeci- 
sion, such as may easily be imagined. 

“ I will sign it,” said he. 

“When?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“No, Monseigneur, if you sign it 
at all, it must be forthwith.” 

“ But at least, Messieurs de Guise 
must have the engagement I have 
made with them, reduced to writ- 


ing. 


jy 


“ It is reduced to writing, Mon- 
seigneur, and I bring it to you.” 
Monsoreau drew a paper from his 
pocket. It was a full and absolute 
adhesion to the plan with which we 
are acquainted. 

The duke read it from end to end, 
and while he was reading, the count 
could observe that he turned pale ; 
when he had finished it, his legs 
seemed to give way under him ; and 
he sat down, or rather sank into a 
seat before the table. 

“ Here, Monseigneur,” said Mon- 
soreau, presenting him with a pen. 

“ I must sign it, Then ?” said Fran- 
cis, resting his hand on his forehead, 
for his head was dizzy. 

“ You must, if you choose. No 
one compels you to do so.” 

“ Yes, they do, since you menace? 
| me with assassination.” 


424 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR. 


u I do not menace you, Monsei- 
gneur. God forbid. I only warn you. 
That is a very different thing.” 
u Give it nm,” said the duke. 

And with a violent effort he took, 
or rather snatched the pen from the 
hands of the count, and signed the 
paper. 

Monsoreau followed his every mo- 
tion with an eye quickened by hope 
and hatred. When he saw him put 
the pen to the paper, he was obliged 
to support himself against the table. 
His eve-ball seemed to dilate in pro- 
portion to the number of letters which 
the duke formed as he signed his 
name. 

u Ah !” he exclaimed, when the 
duke had finished. And snatching 
the paper with a movement as violent 
as that with which the duke had 
seized the pen, he folded it, thrust it 
between his shirt and the placard of 
wrought silk, which, at that period, 
supplied the place of a waistcoat, but- 
toned his pourpoint, and folded his 
mantle over it. . 

The duke saw him do this with 
astonishment, understanding nothing 
of the meaning of that pale counte- 
nance across which there flashed a 
quick gleam of ferocious joy. 

u And now, Monseigneur,” said 
Monsoreau, a be prudent.” 

u What do you mean ?” asked the 
duke. 

u I mean what I say. Do not 
Wander about the streets at night 
with Aurilly, as you were doing but 
an hour ago.” 

u What do you mean by that ?” 
u I mean by that, Monseigneur, 
that this very night you have been 
persecuting with } r our love, a woman 
whom her husband adores, and of 
whom he is jealous, even to the point 
of — yes, on my honor — to the point 
of killing any one who shall approach 
her without his permission.” 

u Perhaps, count, you may chance 
to be speaking of yourself, and of 
your own wife.” 

u 1 am, Monseigneur ; and since 
you have guessed so truly in the first 


instance, I will not even mdeafor to 
deny it. I married Diana de Meri- 
dor — she is mine — no one shall have 
her, at least, while 1 live, not even a 
prince. And look you, Monseigneur, 
that you may be the surer of it, 1 
swear it to you, by my name, and on 
this dagger.” 

Oo 

And he set the blade of his poniard 
almost against the breast of the prince, 
who recoiled from its point. 

u Monsiem^ you threaten me,” 
cried Francis^, pale between rage and 
terror. 

u No, my prince, I only warn you, 
as I did a while since.” 

u Of what do you warn me ?” 
a That no one shall have my 
wife.” 

u And I, master fool,” cried D’ 
Anjou, out of his senses with fury, 
u I reply that you warn me too late, 
for that some one has her already.” 
Monsoreau uttered a fearful cry, 
thrusting both his hands into his 
hair. 

44 It is not you,” he stammered. 
u It is not you, Monseigneur.” 

And his hand still clasping the 
weapon, was again offered at the 
prince’s breast in act of striking. 
Francis started back. 
u You are frantic, count,” cried 
he, preparing to strike upon his bell. 

u No, I see clearly, I speak ration- 
ally, I hear correctly. You have just 
said that some one possesses my wife. 
You have said it.” 
a I repeat it.” 

u Name the man, and prove the 
fact.” 

u Who lay in ambush to-night with- 
in twenty paces of your door with a 
musket ?” 

“I did.” 

u Well ! Count. During that 
time — ” 

u During that time ?” 
u A man was in your room, or ra- 
ther in your wife’s room.” 
u You saw him go in ?” 
u I saw him come out.” 
u By the door 
u By the window.’’ 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


425 


u You recognized tlie man ?” 
a I did.” 

u Name him !” said Monsoreau. 

‘ Name him, Monseigneur, or I will 
not answer for the consequences.” 

The duke passed his hand across 
his brow, and something like a smile 
flitted over his lips. 

u Monsieur le Comte,” said he, 
u on the honor of a prince of blood 
royal, by God, and on my soul ! be- 
fore eight days have passed, I will tell 
you who is the man who possesses 
your wife.” 

u You swear it to me?” cried 
Monsoreau. 
u I swear it.” 

u Well, Monseigneur, in eight 
davs,” said the count, striking his 
bosom on the place under which the 
paper signed by the prince lay con- 
cealed, u in eight days, do you under- 
stand me ?” 

u Return in eight days. I have no 
more to say.” 

u In truth, so much the better,” 
said Monsoreau. u In eight days I 
shall have recovered all my strength, 
and one needs all his strength for 
vengeance.” 

And he went out making a gesture 
of farewell to the prince, which might 
easily have been taken for a gesture 
of menace. 


CHAPTER IV. 

\ WALK TO THE TOURNELLES. 

Br this time, however, and by slow 

degrees, the Angevine gentlemen had 

returned to Paris. 

Were one to say they entered the 

city with confidence, he would say 

what no one would believe. Thev 

* 

knew the King, his brother, and his 
mother, too well to suppose that such 
matters as had passed could terminate 
in family embraces. 

They still remembered the chase 


which had been made after them by 
the King’s friends, and they could not 
bring themselves to believe that a tri- 
umph was going to be granted to 
them, as a set off to that disagreea- 
ble scene. 

They returned, therefore, timidly, 
and stole into the city, armed to the 
teeth, ready to give their fire on the 
first hint of danger ; and they drew 
swords fifty times before reaching the 
Hotel d’ Anjou, upon burghers who 
had committed no offence but that of 
gazing on them as they rode along. 
Antraguet especially showed himself 
ferocious, and laid all his insults to 
the account of Messieurs the minions 
of the King, and promised himself to 
say to them, on the first occasion, 
two very plain words. 

He communicated his project to 
Riberac, a man of good counsel, and 
he replied, 

u That before giving himself such 
a treat, one should have a frontier or 
two within reach.” 

a That can be arranged easily 
enough,” said Antraguet. 

The duke received them well. 
They were his own peculiar men, even 
as Messieurs de Maugiron, Quelus. 
Schomberg, and Epernon, were the 
King’s. 

He commenced his conversation by 
saying to them, 

u My friends, they are preparing 
to kill you a little, I fancy. Such is 
the rumor that attaches to receptions 
of this kind !” 

u True, Monseigneur,” replied An- 
traguet, u but should we not go to 
pay our humble respects to his Ma- 
jesty ? Were we to hide ourselves it 
would not redound, I think, to the 
credit of Anjou ; what think you of it ?” 

u You are right,” said the Duke, 
u go, and if you desire it, I will ac- 
company you.” 

The three young gentlemen were 
consulting on this point when Bussy 
entered the saloon, and went up to 
embrace his friends. 

u Ah !” said he, u you are behind- 
hand ! But what is that I hear, that 


426 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


nis Highness is preparing to get him- 
self killed in the Louvre, as Caesar 
did in the Capitol at Rome. Only 
consider that each one of Messieurs 
the minions would willingly carry off 
a small piece of Monseigneur under 
his mantle.” 

u But we are desirous, dear friend, 
of rubbing ourselves a little against 

O O 

these gentlemen.” 

Bussy began to laugh. 

u Ah, ah !” said he, u we shall 
see, we shall see.” 

The duke looked at him very at- 
tentively. 

u Let us go to the Louvre,” said 
Bussy, u but let us go alone. Mon- 
seigneur shall remain in his garden 
cutting off the heads of his poppies.’’ 

Francis pretended to laugh very 
joyously, but in truth he was most 
happy to have one scrape the fewer, 
into which to get. 

The Angevins dressed themselves 
superbly. They were very great lords, 
who willingly ate up the revenues of 
their paternal lands in silk, and vel- 
vets and embroideries. 

Their meeting, the second time, 
was a mixture of gold and jewelry 
and brocade, which made the people 
all say u Hail !” for their infallible 
instinct had divined that there beat 
hearts beneath those superb decora- ! 
tions burning with hatred toward the 
minions of the King. 

Henry the Third did not choose to 
receive these gentlemen of Anjou, and 
they awaited vainly in the gallery. 
It was Messieurs Quelus, Maugiron, 
Schomberg, and D’ Epernon, who, 
bowing with the utmost politeness, 
and manifesting all possible regret, 
came to announce this news to the 
Angevins. 

u Ah ! Messieurs,” said Antraguet, 
for Bussy kept himself as much out 
of sight as possible, u the news is 
grievous, but by passing through your 
mouths it loses much of its bitter- 
ness.” 

u Messieurs,” said Schomberg, 
u you are the fine flowers of grace 
and co irtesy ; what should you say to 


| exchanging this reception which has 
proved a failure for a little walk ?” 
u Oh ! Messieurs, we were going to 
ask it of you,” said Antraguet quick- 
ly, but Bussy touched him lightly on 
the arm, as much as to say to him : 
u Be silent, and let them do as 
they will.” 

u Whither, then, shall we go ?” 
said Quelus, looking about on all 
sides. 

u I know a lovely spot near the 
Bastille,” said Schomberg. 

u Messieurs, we will follow you,” 
said Riberac. u Please to walk be- 
fore us.” 

And at the word the four friends of 
the King issued from the Louvre, fol- 
lowed by the four men of Anjou, and 
took their way along the quays to- 
ward the ancient enclosure of the 
Tournelles, which, at this time, had 
been converted into a horse mart, a 
sort of level square, planted with a 
few lean, sickly-looking trees, and 
studded here and there with posts, for 
the purpose of fastening the horses. 

As they were going on their way, 
the eight gentlemen who had taken 
one another’s arms, conversed with a 
thousand civilities on all sorts of gay 
and humorous subjects, to the great 
amazement of the burghers, who re- 
gretted the shouts of joy which they 
had so lately uttered, declaring now 
that the Angevins had made peace 
with the swine of Herodes. 

They reached the appointed spot. 
Quelus took the word. 
u See what excellent ground ; ob- 
serve how lonely is the spot ; and how 
sure is the foothold on this salpetre.” 
u Upon my word ! yes,” said An- 
traguet, beating several appeals with 
his foot. 

u Well,” continued Quelus, u we 
have thought, these gentlemen, I 
mean, and I, that you would be so 
kind, one of these days, as to accom- 
pany us hither, in order to second 
Monsieur de Bussy, your friend, who 
has done us the honor to challenge us 
all four.” 

“It is very true,” said Bussy, in 


# 


1HE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


427 


reply io the wondering looks of his 
friends. 

u He said nothing of it to us !” 
said Antraguet. 

u Oh ! Monsieur de Bussy is a man 
who knows the true value of things,” 
answered Maugiron. u Do you ac- 
cept, Messieurs of Anjou ?” 

u Ccrtes, yes,” replied the three 
Angevins, in one voice, u the honor 
is so great that we rejoice at it.” 
u Admirably said,” replied Sclioni- 
berg, rubbing his hands. u Is it your 
pleasure now, that we choose one 
another ?” 

u I like that plan well,” said Ri- 
berac, with flashing eyes, u and 
then — ” 

u Not so,” interrupted Bussy, u we 
have all the same sentiments, with 
which we arc inspired by God. It is 
God who gives all human beings their 
ideas, Messieurs. Let us, then, leave 
to God the care of matching us. You 
know, moreover, that nothing can be 
a matter of greater indifference, pro- 
vided we agree that the first who is 
free mav charge the others.” 

u And it must be so ! It must be 
so !” cried all the minions in a 
breath. 

u That, then, is a reason the more. 
Let us do as the Horatii did ; let us 
draw lots !” 

u Did the Horatii draw lots ?” said 
Q.uelus, pondering. 

u I have every reason to believe 
they did,” said Bussy, gravely. 

u Let us, then, imitate their exam- 
ple.” 

u One moment,” said Bussy, again ; 
u before we know wdio are to be our 
individual antagonists, let us agree 
upon the rules of the combat. It 
would be unbecoming that the condi- 
tions of the fight should follow the 
choice of adversaries.” 

u It is very simple ; we are to fight 
until death ensue, as Monsieur dc 
Saint-Luc said.” 

u With sword and dagger,” said 
Bussy, u we are skilled in the use of 
them.” 

u On foot r” asked Quelus. 


u What the devil should we do on 
horseback ? One has not free com- 
mand of his motions so.” 
u On what day?” 
u Why, on the earliest possible, of 
course.” 

u No,” said D’Epernon, u I have a 
thousand things to arrange, a will to 
make. Pardon me, but I prefer 
waiting a while. Three or six days 
will sharpen our appetites.” 

u That is speaking like a brave 
man,” said Bussy, ironically enough. 
u Is it agreed upon ?” 
u Yes. We understand each other 
perfectly.” 

u Then let us draw lots,” said 
Bussy. 

u One moment,” said Antraguet, 
U I propose this. Let us divide the 
ground like impartial men. As our 
names will come forth by hazard two 
by two, let us mark off four compart- 
ments, one for each of the four 
pairs.” 

“ Well said.” 

a I propose then for number one, 
the oblong space between the two 
linden trees. It is a fine space.” 
u Accepted.” 
u But the sun ?” 

u So much the worse for the second 
pair. It will be turned towards the 
east.” 

u Not so. Messieurs, that would 
be unjust,” said Bussy. u Let us de- 
scribe a semicircle and arrange our- 
selves all against the light, so that 
the sun may strike our side faces. 
Let us kill, but not assassinate each 
other.” 

Bussy showed the position, which 
was accepted. Then they proceed d 
to draw lots for the names. 

Schomberg came out the first, Ri- 
berac the second. They were ap- 
pointed the first pair. Quelus' and 
Antraguet formed the second. Li- 
varot and Maugiron the third. At 

t - 

the name of Quelus, Bussy bent his 
brows. He had desired to have him 
for his antagonist. 

D’Epernon, seeing himself necessa- 
rily opposed to Bussy, turned pale, 


428 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


and was forced to pull his moustaches 
in order to bring hack a little color 
into his cheeks. 

u Now, Messieurs,” said Bussy, 
u until the day of the combat, we 
belong one of us to the other. It is 
for life, for death, we are therefore 
friends. Will you accept a dinner 
at the Hotel de Bussy ?” 

All bowed in token of assent, and 
returned to the house of Bussy, where 
a sumptuous festival, which was pro- 
longed until morning, was prepared 
for them. 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH CHICOT FALLS ASLEEP. 

All these dispositions of the Ange- 
vins had been marked first by the 
King, and then by Chicot. 

Henry was agitated terribly within 
the Louvre, where he impatiently 
awaited the return of his friends, from 
their walk with Messieurs of Anjou. 

Chicot had followed the wall at a 
distance, and- had examined with the 
eye of a connoisseur, that which no 
one could understand better than he, 
and after convincing himself fully of 
the intentions of Quelus and Bussy, 
he made the best of his way back to 
the house of Monsoreau. 

Monsoreau was a very cunning man, 
but as for duping Chicot, he could 
not so much as pretend to attempt it. 
Chicot brought him abundance of 
compliments from the King. 

Chicot found Monsoreau in bed. 
The visit he had paid on the previous 
evening, had shattered all the springs 
of his yet debilitated constitution ; 
and Remy, with one hand on his 
chin, was watching in disgust the 
first symptoms of the fever, which was 
again beginning to lay new hold of 
its victim. 

Nevertheless. Monsoreau was still 
able to carry on the conversation, and 


to dissemble tolerably well, his wrath 
against the Duke d’ Anjou ; so well, 
indeed, that no person but Chicot 
would have suspected it at all. But 
the greater the discretion and reserve 
of Monsoreau, the more did the Gas- 
con suspect him. 

u In truth,” said he, u a man can- 
not be so passionately fond of the 
Duke d’ Anjou, without there being 
something under the cards.” 

Chicot, who knew a good deal about 
diseases, was equally desirous of 
knowing whether the count’s fever was 
not a trick, like that which had been 
played before by Nicholas David. 

But Remy was not deceiving, and 
at the first throb of Monsoreau, 
“This fellow is really sick,” said 
Chicot to himself, u and cannot un- 
dertake anything. There still re- 
mains Monsieur de Bussy. Let us 
see w T hat Monsieur de Bussy is capa- 
ble of undertaking ?” 

And he hurried to the Hotel de 
Bussy, which he found all dazzling 
with lights ; all perfumed with odor- 
ous vapors, which would have extort- 
ed cries of rapture, even from Goren- 
flot. 

a Is Monsieur de Bussy getting 
married ?” he inquired of a lacquey. 

u No, Monsieur,” replied he, 
u Monsieur de Bussy has been recon- 
ciled to several lords of the court, and 
they are celebrating the reconciliation 
by a feast, a capital feast I can tell 
you !” 

u Unless he poisons them there,” 
said Chicot, “ of which I do not be- 
lieve him capable, the King is safe in 
this quarter, also.” 

He returned to the Louvre, and 
found Henry walking to and fro in 
the fencing hall, grumbling, and in 
an ill-humor. He had sent three 
running footmen to Quelus, and his 
people did not understand wherefore 
his Majesty was so uneasy; they had 
stopped quietly at the house of Mon- 
sieur de Birague the younger, where 
every man wearing the liveries of ths 
King, always found a glass full, a ham 
carved, and abundance of comfits. 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


429 


That was Birague’s method of 
keeping in favor. 

Chicot’s appearance at the door of 
the room extracted an exclamation 
of joy from Henry. “ Oh ! my dear 
friend, do you know what has become 
of them?” 

“ Of whom ? of your minions?” 

“ Yes, of my poor friends.” 

“ They lie, I fear, very low just 
now,” replied Chicot. 

“ Have they murdered them ?” cried 
Henry, drawing himself up, his eyes 
flashing with fiery menace — “ are they 
dead ?” 

“ Dead, I am afraid”-— 

“ You know it, and you laugh, hea- 
then.” 

“ My son, you are too hasty — 
dead they are — but dead drunk.” 

“ Ah ! buffoon. Now you have 
hurt me. But wherefore do you slan- 
der these gentlemen ?” 

“ On the contrary, I glorify them.” 
“ You are still for ever railing. 
Come, be serious, I entreat you. Do 
you know that they went abroad with 
the Angevins ?” 

“ Do I not know it ?” 

“ Well, what has come of it?” 

“ Well, that which I told you, has 
come of it. They are dead drunk, 
or thereabout.” 

a But Bussy, Bussy !” 

“ Bussv is fuddling them. He is 
a very dangerous man.’' 

“ Chicot, for pity’s sake.” 

“Well. It is the truth. Bussy 
gives them a dinner ; your friends a 
dinner. How do you like that ?” 

“ Bussy gives them a dinner ! oh ! 
impossible ! They are sworn foes.” 

“ Exactly. If they were sworn 
friends, they would have no occasion 
to get drunk together. Listen ; have 
you got good legs ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Will you go as far as to the 
river ?” 

“ I would go to the end of the 
world to be witness to such a thing ” 
“ Well. Go only so far as the 
Hotel de Bussy, and you will see this 
prodigy.” 


“ You will accompany me ?” 

“ Thank you. I came thence but 
now.” 

“ But in one word, Chicot” — 

“ Oh ! no, no, you understand 
that I have seen, that I have no need 
to convince myself. My legs have be- 
come three inches shorter, by running 
back into my belly. If I were to re- 
turn thither, they would begin at my 
knees. Go, my son, go” — 

The King darted an angry glance 
at him. 

“You are very good,” said Chicot, 
“ to get into a state of choler for these 
folks. They laugh, they feast, they 
make all the opposition in the world 
to your government. Reply to all 
these things, like a philosopher ; 
they laugh, let us laugh. They 
dine, let us have something good and 
hot served up to us They are oppos- 
ing us, let us go to bed after supper.” 
The King could not refrain from 
smiling. 

“You may boast yourself of being 
a perfect sage,” said Chicot. “ There 
have been Kings of France styled the 
long-haired — one King styled the 
bold, one the great ; also Kings 
styled the lazy. I am sure that you 
will be surnamed Henry the patient. 
Ah ! my son, it is a fine virtue, where 
one has no other !” 

“ Betrayed !” said the King to him 
self. “ These men have not even the 
hearts of gentlemen.” 

“ So ! so ! you are uneasy about your 
friends,” cried Chicot, pushing the 
King toward the hall in which supper 
had been just served. “ You pitied 
them when you believed them dead, 
and now that you know that they are 
not dead, you weep, and are yet more 
uneasy. Henry, you are perpetually 
puling.” 

“You annoy me, Monsieur Chicot.” 
“ Come, would you prefer that each 
one of them had seven or eight 
great rapier wounds in his stomach ? 
Do be a little consistent.” 

“ Ishould like to be able to reckon 
on my friends,” said Henry, in a 
gloomy voice 


430 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Oh ! Ventre de Biche /” replied 
Chicot, u reckon on me, I am here, my 
son ; only feed me. I want some 
pheasant, and some truffles,” he ad- 
ded, extending his plate. 

Henry and his only friend went to 
bed early. The King sighing be- 
cause his heart was so empty, Chicot 
panting because his stomach was so full. 

On the following day, when the 
King awoke, Messieurs de Quelus, 
Schomberg, Maugiron, and D’Eper- 
non presented themselves. The ush- 
er was in the habit of admitting 
them always. He now opened the door 
to the gentlemen. 

Chicot was still asleep. The King 
had not been able to sleep at all. 
He leaped furiously out of his bed, 
and tearing off the perfumed appa- 
ratus which covered his hands and 
cheeks — 

u Out of the room,” he cried, u out 
of the room.” 

The usher, utterly astounded, ex- 
plained to the young gentlemen that 
they were ordered out. They gazed 
at each other in equal astonishment. 

u But, Sire,” stuttered Quelus, 
u we wished to tell your Majesty.” 
u That you are not drunk,” shouted 
Henry. u Is not that it ?” 

Chicot opened one eye. 
u Pardon me, Sire,” replied Que- 
lus gravely, u you are in an error.” 
u Nevertheless, I have drunk no 
wine of Anjou.” 

u Ah, very well ! very well !” said 
Quelus, with a smile. u I under- 
stand, yes, very well.” 
u Very well ! what ?” 
u If your Majesty will remain 
alone with us, we will talk if you 
please.” 

u I hate drunkards and traitors.” 
u Sire !” cried the three gentle- 
men, who had not yet spoken, in one 
voice. 

u Patience, Messieurs,” said Que- 
lus, stopping them. u His Majesty 
has slept badly, and has had evil 
dreams. One word will give a better 
morning’s humor to our much vene- 
rated prince.” 


That impertinent apology, made 
by a subject in behalf of his King, 
made a deep impression on Henry. 
He divined at once that men so bold 
as to say things so daring could not 
have done anything dishonorable.” 

u Speak, then,” said he, u and be 
brief. 

u It is possible, Sire, but diffi- 
cult.” 

u Yes. Men always turn to the 
right or to the left from certain accu- 
sations.” 

u No, Sire, men go quite straight,” 
said Quelus, looking at Chicot and 
the usher, as if to reiterate to Henry 
his request for a private audience. 

Henry made a gesture with his 
hand, and the usher left the room. 
Chicot opened the other eye, and 
said — 

u Do not mind me, I am sleeping 
like an ox.” 

And closing both his eyes, he be- 
gan to snore with all his lungs. 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN WHICH CHICOT AWAKENS. 

When they saw that Chicot was so 
conscientiously asleep, no one troubled 
himself about him. Moreover, men 
had got into the habit of looking upon 
Chicot as one of the pieces of furni- 
ture in the King’s bed-chamber. 

u Your Majesty,” said Quelus, 
bowing low, u knows but one half of 
matters, and I dare to say that the 
least interesting half. Assuredly, 
and no one of us has the least inten- 
tion of denying it, we dined, all of 
us, at the house of Monsieur deBussy, 
and I must even say, to the honor of 
his cook, that we dined extremely 
well.” 

u There was, above all, a certain 
wine of Hungary or Austria,” said 
Schomberg, u which I really thought 
marvellous.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


431 


u Ah ! the horrid German,” inter- 
rupted the King, u he loves wine, I 
always suspected it.” 

u 1 always knew it,” said Chicot. 
u I have seen him drunk twenty 
times.” 

Schomberg now turned about. 
u Pay no attention to me, my son, 
the King will always tell you that I 
dream aloud.” 

Schomberg returned to the 
King. 

u Upon my word, Sire,” said he, 
c( I conceal neither my friendship nor 
my hatred. Good wine is a good 
thing.” 

u Let us not call anything good 
which makes us forget our lord,” said 
the King in a dry and reserved tone. 

Schomberg was about to reply, un- 
willing, probably, to abandon so good 
a cause, when Quelus made him a 
sign. 

u It is just,” said Schomberg, 
u proceed.” 

u 1 was saying, then, Sire,” re- 
sumed Quelus, u that during the re- 
past, and still more before it, we had 
the most serious and most interesting 
conversation, particularly relating to 
the interests of your Majesty.” 

u We are making a very long ex- 
ordium,” said Henry, “ which is a 
bad sign.” 

u Ventre de Biche ! what a chatter- 
box this Valois is,” cried Chicot. 

u Oh, oh ! master Gascon,” said 
Henry, haughtily, if you be not asleep, 
begone hence.” 

u Pardieu /” said Chicct, u if I be 
not asleep, it is that you hinder me 
from sleeping. Your tongue clatters 
like the rattles on a Good Friday.” 
Quelus seeing that in this royal 
dwelling it was impossible to speak 
seriously on the most serious subject, 
so frivolous had custom rendered all 
the world, sighed, shrugged his shoul- 
ders, and rose in disgust. 

1 o 

u Sire,” said D’Epernon, swinging 
his body sillily to and fro, u we are 
on grave matters.” 

u Grave matters ?” repeated Hen- 


u Yes. If, at least, the lives of 
eight brave gentlemen seem to merit, 
on your Majesty’s part, the trouble 
of attending to them.” 

u What does this mean ?” cried the 
King. 

u It means that I wait until it 
please the King to listen to me.” 
u I listen, my son, I listen,” said 
Henry, resting his hand on the shoul- 
der of Quelus. 

u Well, I was observing, Sire, that 
we conversed seriously ; and now, 
here is the result of our conversation. 
Royalty is assailed, debilitated.” 
u That is to say, all the world has 
conspired against it,” cried Henry. 

u It resembles,” continued Quelus, 
u one of those strange Gods of the 
days of Tiberius and Caligula, which 
fell into extreme old age without the 
possibility of dying, and continued 
walking on in their immortality 
through the road of mortal infirmities. 
Those gods once having reached that 
point, never stop in their still increas- 
ing decrepitude, unless some noble 
act of devotion, on the part of some 
one of the adorers, resuscitate them 
and restore their youth. Then, re- 
generated by the transfusion of youth- 
ful, ardent and generous blood, they 
begin to live anew, and grow once 
again strong and puissant. Well, 
Sire, your royalty is like those gods, 
it can live no longer unless it be by 
sacrifices.” 

u He speaks like gold,” said Chi- 
cot. u Quelus, my son, go preach in 
the streets of Paris, and I will wager 
an ox against an egg that you will 
extinguish Lincestre, Cahier, Cotton, 
and even that thunderbolt of elo- 
quence, who is called Gorenfiot.” 
Henry replied not a word. It was 
evident that a great change was going 
on in his spirit. He had at first at- 
tacked his minions with haughty 
.glances, but by degrees the sentiment 
of truth had reached him, and he be- 
came serious, reflective, silent. 

u Go on,” he said at last, u you 
see that I am listening to you, Quo- 
his.” 


432 


DIANA OF MER1DOR; OR, 


“Sire,” replied lie, “you are a 
very great King, but you have no 
*onger a horizon before you. The 
nobility has raised up barriers in front 
of you beyond which you cannot see, 
unless it be the still increasing bar- 
riers which the people, in its turn, is 
raising up. Well, Sire, you, who 
are a stout warrior, say, what do men 
do in war, when a battalion takes 
post, a menacing wall, within thirty 
paces of another batallion ? The 
cowards look behind them, and, see- 
ing a free space, fly ! The brave bow 
their crests and charge forward !” 

“ Be it so ! Forward !” cried the 
King, “ by God’s death ! am not I 
the first gentleman in my kingdom ? 
Who has waged braver battles, I ask 
of you, than those of my youth ? or 
has the century, which is drawing to 
its close, many names that have rung 
with a wider glory than those of Jar- 
nac and Moncontour? Forward, 
then, gentlemen, and I will be the 
first ; it is my habit, in the melee, un- 
less I am mistaken.” 

“ Be it so, Sire !’’ cried the young 
men all together, electrified by the 
King’s warlike demonstration; “ for- 
ward !” 

Chicot sat upright. 

“ Silence,” he cried, “ down there, 
the rest of you. Allow my orator to 
proceed. ' Go on, Quelus ; go on, my 
son, ycu have already spoken good 
and noble things, and you have yet 
more to say. Proceed, my friend, 
proceed.” 

“ Yes, Chicot ; and you also are 
right, as often is the case. For the 
rest, yes ; I will go on, and that to 
inform his Majesty that the moment 
has come when royalty must agree to 
one of those sacrifices of which we 
have spoken. Against those ram- 
parts, which are gradually closing in 
around your Majesty, four men are 
about to march, confident of meeting 
encouragement from you, Sire, of 
meeting glory from posterity.” 

“ What do you say, Quelus ?’’ ask- 
ed the King, his eyes blazing with a 
joyous gleam, which was yet blended 


with anxiety ; “ who are these four 
men ?” 

“ I and these gentlemen,” said the 
young man, with that sentiment of 
pride which aggrandizes every man 
who stakes his life for a principle or 
for a passion ; “ I and these gentle- 
men, Messieurs ; we devote ourselves, 
Sire.” 

“For what ?” 

“ For your safety.” 

“ Against whom?” 

“ Against your enemies.” 

“Mere young men’s animosity!” 
cried Henry. 

“ Oh ! Sire, this is but the voice 
of vulgar prejudice, and the affection 
of your Majesty for us is so noble 
that it consents to disguise itself un- 
der this trivial mantle ; but we recog- 
nize it under the disguise. Speak as 
a King, Sire, not as a burgher of the 
Rue Saint-Denis. Do not pretend to 
think that Maugiron detests Antra- 
guet, that Schomberg has a disgust 
at Livarot, that D’Epcrnon is jealous 
of Bussy, and that Quelus bears ill 
will to Riberac. Ah ! no, it is not so, 
they a, re all young, handsome, gal- 
lant. Friends or enemies they could 
love each other like brothers. But 
it is no rivalry of man and man which 
sets us sword in hand. It is the 
quarrel of France against Anjou ; 
the quarrel of popular right against 
divine right. We offer ourselves as 
champions of royalty in those lists 
wherein the champions of the League 
would meet us ; and we come now to 
say to you, give us your blessing, lord ; 
smile upon those who are about to 
die for you. Your benediction will 
perhaps help them to conquer, your 
smile will surely assist them to die.” 
Henry, half choked by his tears, 
opened his arms wide to Quelus and 
the rest. He clasped them all to his 
heart, and it was not an uninteresting 
spectacle, or a picture without char- 
acter, that scene in which manly 
courage was allied to the emotions of 
a profound affection, which at that 
moment devotion almost rendered 
holy. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


433 


Chicot, serious and subdued, Chi- 
cot, with his hand clasped over his 
brow, his eye fixed on the vacancy of 
the alcove, and his countenance usu- 
ally cold with indifference, or con- 
tracted by sneer of sarcasm, was not 
the least noble or least eloquent of the 
six. 

44 Ah I my brave ones,” said the 
King at length, 44 this is indeed grand | 
devotedness. It is a noble task you 
have undertaken, and I am proud to- 
day ; not to be King of France, but 
to be your friend. Nevertheless, I 
know my interests better than any 
one, and I will not accept a sacrifice, 
the end of which, glorious in hope, 
would deliver me, should you fail, in- 
to the hands of my enemies. France 
is sufficient, believe me, to wage war 
against Anjou. I know my brother, 
the Guises, and the League ; often in 
my life I have tamed wilder and more 
rebellious horses.” 

44 But, Sire,” cried Maugiron, 
44 thus do not soldiers reason. They 
cannot allow a thought of failure to 
enter into the examination of a ques- 
tion of this nature; a question of 
honor, a question of conscience, which 
man pursues in his own conviction 
without troubling himself how he is 
to think of it in his justice.” 

44 Pardon me, Maugiron,” re- 
plied the King, 44 a soldier may go on 
blindfold, -but a captain must re- 
flect.” 

44 Reflect, then, Sire, and let us 
act, we who are only soldiers,” said 
Schomberg. 44 Moreover, I know not 
the word ill luck, I have known no- 
thing but good fortune.” 

44 My friend ! my friend !” said the 
King sadly. 44 I cannot say so much. 
It is true that you are but twenty.” 

44 Sire,” interrupted Quelus, 44 the 
obliging words of your Majesty only 
redouble our ardor. On what day 
shall we cross steel with Messieurs de 
Bussy, Livarot, Antraguet, and Fi- 
ber ac ?” 

44 Never. I forbid it absolutely. 
Never Do you understand me ? 
N ever ? 


“For pity’s sake, Sire, excuse 
us,” replied Quelus. 44 The appoint- 
ment was made yesterday before din 
nor ; our words are given, and cannot 
be recalled.” 

44 Excuse me, Monsieur,” said 
Henry. 44 The King unbinds oaths, 
and recalls words by saying, 4 I will, 
or I will not,’ for the King is omni- 
potent. Let those gentlemen be in- 
formed, that I have menaced you all 
with my displeasure, if you do battle, 
and in order that you may be sure of 
this yourselves, 1 swear to banish you, 
if—” 

44 Hold, Sire,” cried Quelus, 44 for 
if you can relieve us of our words, 
God alone can relieve you of yours. 
Swear not, therefore ; for if for such a 
reason we have deserved your displea- 
sure, and that displeasure display it- 
self in exiling us, we will go gladly 
into exile, because, being no longer 
in your Majesty’s domain, we shall 
then be enabled to keep our words, 
and to meet our adversaries on foreign 
soil.” 

44 If these gentlemen approach 
within distance even of the shot of 
arquebuss,” cried Henry, u I will 
cast all the four into the Bastille.” 

44 Sire,” said Quelus, 44 the day on 
which your Majesty will so act, we 
will go, bareheaded, with halter3 
about our necks, and presenting our- 
selves to Master Laurent Testu the 
governor, will demand that he incar- 
cerate us with those gentlemen.” 

44 I will cut off their heads. ’Sdeath! 
I am the King, 1 hope.” 

44 If such a fate befall our enemies, 
Sire, we will cut our throats at the 
foot of the scaffold.” 

Henry kept silence for a long time, 
and then raising his dark eyes, 

44 Be it so,” he said. 44 This is 
grand and brave nobility. It is well. 
If God bless not a cause defended by 
such men” — 

44 Be not impious ! blaspheme 
not !” cried Chicot, solemnly de- 
scending from his bed, and advancing 
toward the King.” 44 Yes. These 
are noble hearts ! Heavens ! Do what 


434 


DIANA OF MERIDOR • OR, 


they require of you. Hear me, my j 
master, fix a day for these young men. j 
This is your duty, and not to dictate 
his duty to the all-powerful.” 

u Oh, my God ! oh, my God !” 
murmured Henry. 

u Sire, we implore you,” said the 
four gentlemen, bowing their heads, 
and bending their knees before him. 

u Well, be it so ! In truth, the 
Lord is just, and will give us the vic- 
tory ; but, beyond that, we will pre- 
pare to gain it by Christian and ju- 
dicious means. Remember, my 
friends, that Jarnac performed his 
devotions scrupulously before he 
fought La Chataigneraie. He was a 
brave blade, was the latter, but he for- 
got himself in feasts, and drinking 
bouts, and went to see women, an 
abominable sin. To be brief, he 
tempted God, who perhaps smiled on 
his youth, his beauty, and his strength, 
and would have saved his life. Jar- 
nac hamstrung him notwithstanding. 
Listen to me, we will enter on our de- 
votions ; if I had time, I would send 
your swords to Rome, that our holy 
father might bless them all. But we 
have the shrine of Saint-Genevicve, 
which is equal to the best of relics. 
Let us fast together, let us macerate 
ourselves, and sanctify ^he great day of 
Corpus-Christi ; on the day following.” 
u Ah ! Sire, thanks! thanks!” 
cried the four young men, all together. 
u It is within eight days.” 

And they threw themselves upon 
the hands of the King, who embraced 
them all once more, and returned into 
his oratory, bursting into tears. 

u Our cartel is all drawn out,” said 
Quelus. u It lacks only the hour 
and the day. Write, Maugiron, on 
this table, with the King’s pen. 
Write c the morrow of Corpus Chris- 
&i day.’ ” 

u It is done,” replied Maugiron. 
u Who is the herald who shall bear 
the letter ?” 

u That shall be I, if you please,” 
said Chicot, drawing near to them ; 
u only I will give you a piece of ad- 
vice, my little ones. His Majesty 


speaks of fasts, of macerations, of 
shrines. It is marvellous how effec- 
tive vows are after victories. But 
before battles, I believe in the efficacy 
of a generous diet, of sound wine, of 
solitary sleep for at least eight hours 
by day or by night. Nothing gives 
suppleness and ner r e to the wrist like 
three hours 1 sitting at table — without 
drunkenness, be it understood. I 
agree very well with the King, on the 
score of amours ; they are too prone to 
make men tender. You will do well 
to break them off.” 

u Bravo, Chicot !” cried the young 
men in a voice. 

u Adieu : my young lions,” replied 
the Gascon. u I will go my way to 
the Hotel de Bussy.” 

He took three steps, and returned. 
u By the way !” said he, u do not 
leave the king during that fine Corpus 
Christi day. Do not go to the coun- 
try, one or all of you. Remain at 
the Louvre like a knot of Paladins. 
That is agreed — hey ? Then I will go 
and do your commission.” 

And Chicot, with the letter in his 
hand, undid the square of his long 
legs, and vanished. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CORPUS CHRISTI DAY. 

During eight days, events were in 
preparation, as a storm is in prepara- 
tion, while the skies are quiet during 
the calm and slumbrous days of sum- 
mer. 

Monsoreau, who had risen on his 
feet again, after an eight and forty 
hours’ fever, occupied himself in 
watching with his own eyes for the 
robber of his honor. But as he dis- 
covered no one, he was more T^Bsfied 
than ever of the hypocris; 

Duke of Anjou, and of his e\ 
tions touching Diana. 

5 Bussy did not discontinue 1 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


435 


visits to the house of the Grand Hunts- 
man, but warned by Remy of the fre- 
quent espials of his patient, he dis- 
continued his nightly visits to the 
window. 

Chicot divided his time into two 
parts. One was consecrated to his 
beloved master, Henry of Valois, 
whom he left as seldom as possible, 
watching over him as a mother watches 


over a well beloved child — the other 
was given to his dear friend Gorenflot, 
whom with great difficulty he had pre- 
vailed upon to return to his cell, into 
which he was conducted by the abbe 
Messire Joseph Foulon,who gave him 
the most cordial reception. 

At this first visit, much had been 
seen in regard to the King’s piety ; 
and the prior appeared as grateful 
as possible for the honor the King 
was about to do the abbey in visit- 
ing it. This honor was even greater 
than had been anticipated, for Henry, 
at the request of the venerable abbe, 
had consented to pass the night in re- 
tirement at the convent. 

Chicot confirmed the abbe in this 
hope, on which he scarcely dared to 
rely, and as they knew that Chicot 
had possession of the King’s ear, Chi- 
cot was invited to return, which he 
promised to do. As for Gorenflot, he 
had grown ten cubits in the eyes of 
the monks. It was, in fact, a wonder- 
ful stroke for him thus to have made 
a conquest of all Chicot’s confidence. 
Maehiavelli, of political memory, 
could have done no more. 

Invited to return, Chicot returned ; 
and as he still brought with him, in 
his pockets, under his cloak, in the 
tops of his large boots, flagons of 
wine of the most approved growths, 
he was even better received by bro- 
ther Gorenflot, than by Messire Jo- 
seph Foulon. 

There he was shut up whole hours 
together in the cell of the monk, 
sharing, as they said, his ecstasies 
and studies On the day preceding 
the eve of Corpus Christi day, he spent 
the whole night in the convent, and 
report was loud in the abbey, that 


Gorenflot had resolved Chicot to take 
the gown. 

As to the King, he gave, meanwhile,* 
good lessons of fencing to his friends, 
endeavoring with them to discover 
new hits, and especially studying how 
he might perfect D’Epernon, to whom 
chance had given so dangerous an ad- 
versary, and on whom the approach 
of the decisive day had a very visi 
ble effect. 

Any one who had traversed the city 
at certain hours of the night, would 
have met in the quarter of Sainte-Gen- 
evieve, those strange monks, of whom 
we gave some description in our ear- 
lier chapters, and who much more re- 
sembled reisters than gownsmen. To 
conclude, we may add, in order to 
complete the picture, that the Hotel 
de Guise had become a den at once 
the most mysterious and the most 
turbulent ; the most populous within, 
and the most deserted without, that 
possibly can be imagined. That 
councils were held nightly in the great 
hall, after the shutters had been care- 
fully and hermetically closed, and 
that these councils were preceded by 
dinners, to which men only were in- 
vited, but at which Madame de Mont- 
pensier presided. 

These details, which we find in the 
memoirs of the time, we are compel- 
led to give to our readers, because they 
will not find them in the archives 
of the police. In fact, the police of 
that benign reign did not even sus- 
pect what was on foot, although the 
plot, as might easily have been seen, 
was of importance, and the worthy 
burghers who made their nightly 
round with steel pots on their heads 
and halberts in their hands, suspected 
no more than they — being men likely 
to suspect no other dangers than such 
as result from fires, mad dogs, or 
drunken brawlers. 

From time to time some patrol 
would indeed stop before the hostelry 
of La Belle Etoile, in the Rue Arbre- 
Sec, but Maitre la Huriere was known 
for so zealous a Catholic, that no one 
doubted that the great noise heard in 


436 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


his house was all for the greater glory ] “ Return to the Louvre, and colla- 

of God. /tion.” 


Such was the state which the city 
of Paris had gradually reached on 
the morning of that great solemnity, 
abolished by the constitutional go- 
vernment, of Corpus Christi day. 

On the morning of that great day 
it was lovely weather, and the streets 
were strewn with flowers, spreading 
their delicious perfumes far and wide. 
On that morning, let us add, Chicot, 
who slept as usual in the King’s 
chamber, aroused Henry early. No 
one had as yet entered the royal 
apartment. 

“ Ah ! my poor Chicot,” cried 
Henry, “ out upon you ! I never 
knew a man choose his time more 
badly. You have aroused me from 
the sweetest dream I ever had.” 

“ What were you dreaming, my 
son ?” asked Chicot. 

“ I dreamed that Quelus had run 
Antraguet through by a thrust in *he 
second, and that our dear friend was 
bathed in the blood of his enemy. 
But it is daylight. Call, Chicot, call 
them.” 

“ What do you want ?” 

“ My hair shirt and my scourges.” 
“ Would not you rather have a 
good breakfast ?” asked Chicot. 

“Pagan!” said Henry, “who 
would hear mass on a full stomach, 
on Corpus Christi day ?” 

“ That is true.” 

“ Call, Chicot, call.” 

“ Patience !” said Chicot. “ You 
will have time to castigate yourself 
until night. Let us talk first. Wilt 
talk with thy friend, Valois — on Chi- 
cot’s word, thou wilt not repent.” 

“ Well, let us talk,” said Henry, 
“ but be quick.” 

“ How do we divide our day’s 
work, my son ?” 

“ Into three parts.” 

“ In honor of the Holy-Trinity, 
very well. What are those three 
parts ?” 

u First, mas* at Saint Germain 
l’Auxerrois.” 

“ Well.” 


“ Exceeding well.” 

“ Then, procession of penitents 
through the streets, stopping to put up 
prayers at all the principal convents 
of Paris, beginning with the Jacobins, 
and ending with Sainte-Genevieve, 
where I have promised the prior to 
pass the night in retirement in the 
cell of a certain saint, who will pass 
the night in prayer, to secure the suc- 
cess of our arms.” 

“ I know him.” 

“ Whom ? the saint ?” 

“ Perfectly well.” 

“ So much the better. You shall 
accompany me, Chicot, and we will 
pray together.” 

“Yes. Be assured I will.” 

“ Then dress yourself, and come.” 
“ Wait a while !” 

“ For what ?” 

“ I have yet some details to ask of 
you.” 

“ Can you not ask them while they 
are dressing me ?” 

“ I had rather ask them while we 
are alone.” 

“ Ask quickly, then. Time flies 
apace.” 

“ Your court, what does it ?” 

“ It follows me.” 

“ Your brother ?” 

“ Accompanies me.” 

“ Your guard ?” 

“ The French guard awaits me 
with Crillon at the Louvre, the Swiss 
awaits me at the Abbey.” 

“ Admirable !” said Chicot ; “ now 
I am informed.” 

“ I may call my people then ?” 

“ Call away.” 

Henry struck a bell. 

“ The ceremony will be magnifi- 
cent !” added Chicot. 

“ The Lord will find pleasure in it, 
I hope.” 

“ We shall see that to-morrow 
But tell me, Henry, before any one 
comes in, have you nothing more to 
say to me ?” 

“No. Have I forgotten any de- 
tail of the ceremony.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


437 


“ I am not talking about that.” 

“ About what are you talking ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But you ask me” — 

“ Whether it is perfectly determin- 
ed that you pay a visit to the Abbey 
of Sainte-Genevieve ?” 

“ Surely it is.” 

“ And that you pass the night 
there ?” 

“ I have promised so to do ?” 

“ Well. If you have nothing more 
to say to me, my son, I have this to 
say to you, that this ceremonial does 
not suit me.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ No, it does not, and when we 
shall have dined” — 

“ When we shall have dined — what 
then r” 

“ I will propose to you another 
plan which 1 have imagined.” 

“ Be it so ! I consent.” 

“You will not consent, my son, 
which is all the same.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Hush ! Your servants are enter- 
ing the antechamber.” As he spoke, 
the ushers opened the doors, and 
then appeared the barber, the perfum- 
er, and the valet of his Majesty, who 
at once took possession of the King, 
and began to perpetrate on his au- 
gust person, one of those toilets 
which we described in the earlier 
part of this work. 

When his Majesty’s toilet was half 
finished, his Highness, Monseigneur 
the Duke d’Anjou, was announced. 

Henry turned round, preparing 
his best smile to receive him. 

The Duke was accompanied by 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, D’Epernon, 
andAurilly. D’Epernon and Auril- 
ly remained behind. 

Henry, at the sight of the count, 
still pale, and with * his face more 
hideous than ever, could not conceal 
his momentary surprise. 

The duke perceived the movement, 
which did not escape the count’s ob- 
servation. 

u Sire,” said the duke, “ this is 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, who comes 


to present his homage to your Majes- 
ty.” 

“ Thanks, Monsieur,” said Henry, 
“ and I am the more moved by your 
visit, because you have been wounded, 
have you not ?” 

“ Yes, Sire.” 

“ Was I not told that it was in 
hunting ?” 

“ In hunting, Sire.” 

“ But you are better now, are you 
not?” 

“ I am well, Sire.” 

“ Sire,” said the Duke of Anjou, 
“ would it not please you, that when 
our devotions shall be finished, Mon- 
sieur le Comte de Monsoreau should 
go and prepare us a fine hunt in the 
woods of Compiegne ?” 

“ But,” said Henry, “ do you not 
know that to-morrow” — 

He waa going to say, four of my 
friends are going to fight four of your 
friends ; but he remembered, suddenly, 
that the secret must be kept, and 
broke off abruptly. 

“ I know nothing, Sire,” replied 
the Duke of Anjou ; “ but if it please 
your Majesty to inform me.” 

“ I was about to say,” said Henry, 
“ that as I shall pass all the night at 
my devotions in the Abbey of Sainte- 
Genevieve, I shall not, perhaps, be 
ready on the next day. But let Mon- 
sieur le Comte set forth, at all events. 
If it be not to-morrow, it shall be 
the day following, that we will 
hunt.” 

“ You hear?” said the Duke to 
Monsoreau, who bowed. 

“Yes, Monseigneur,” said the 
count 

At this moment Schomberg and 
Quelus entered. The King received 
them open armed. 

“ Yet one day more,” said Quelus, 
bowing to the King. 

“ But happily one day only,” said 
Schomberg. 

While this was passing, Monso- 
reau said to the Duke, 

“ It seems that you are banishing 
me, Monseigneur.” 

“Is it not the duty of a Grand 


.38 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


Huntsman to prepare hunting match- 
es for the King?” said the duke, 
laughing. 

o o ^ 

u I understand, said Monso- 
reau, u and I see what this means. 
It is because the eighth day of the 
delay your Highness asked of me, 
expires to-day; and your Highness 
prefers sending me to Compiegne, to 
keeping your word. But let your 
Highness beware. Between this time 
and night-fall, I can by a single 
word” — 

Francis caught the count by the 
wrist. 

“Silence!” he said. “ For, on 
the contrary, I am now keeping the 
promise which you urge.” 
u Explain yourself.” 
u Your departure for the chase 
will be known to all the world.” 

“ Well ! what then ?” 
u Well. You will not set out, 
but will conceal yourself near your 
house. Then, believing you absent, 
the man whom you desire to know, 
will come. The rest regards you 
only, for I am engaged, I think, to 
no more than this.” 

u Ah ! If it turn out so,” said 
Monsoreau. 

u You have my word,” said the 
Duke. 

“ I have something better still, 
Monseigneur. I have your signa- 
ture.” 

u Ah T yes. Mordieu! I know it 
well.” 

Then the Duke turned away from 
Monsoreau, and went toward his 
brother. Aurilly touched the arm of 
D’Epernon. 

“ It is done !” said he. 

“ What ? What is done ?” 

“ Monsieur de Bussy will not fight 
to-morrow.” 

“ Monsieur de Bussy will not fight 
to-morrow ?” 

“ I will answer for it.” 

“ And who will hinder him ?” 

“ What matters that to you, so he 
do not fight ?” 

u If it fall out so, my dear sorcer- 
er, you have won a thousand crowns.” 


u Messieurs,” said Henry, who 
had finished dressing, u now for 
Saint Germain l’Auxerrois.” 

u And thence for the Abbey of 
Sainte-Genevieve ?” asked the Duke. 
“ Certainly,” replied the King. 
u Reckon on that,” said Chicot, 
buckling the belt of his rapier. 

And Henry passed into the gallery, 
where all his court awaited him. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WHICH WILL ADD LIGHT TO THE FORE- 
GOING CHAPTER 

On the day previous to the night on 
which all was determined between the 
Guises and the Angevins, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau returned home and found 
Bussy in his house. 

Then, considering that this brave 
gentleman, to whom he still bore 
strong friendship, might, being aware 
of nothing, compromise himself fa- 
tally, he took him aside. 

u My dear count,” he said, “ will 
you allow me to give you some ad- 
vice ?” 

“ How can you ask ?” replied Bus- 
sy. u I pray you do so.” 

“ Were I in your place, I would be 
absent from Paris to-morrow.” 
a I! wherefore?” 

“ All I can tell you is this, that 
your absence will save you from great 
embarrassment. ” 

u From great embarrassment ?” 
said Bussy, gazing into the bottom of 
the count’s eyes. u What embar- 
rassment ?” 

u Are you ignorant of what is to 
take place to-morrow ?” 
u Utterly.” 
u Upon your honor ?” 
u On the honor of a gentleman.” 

“ Has my Lord of Anjou told you 
nothing ?” 

u Nothing. My Lord of Anjou 
does not tell me his secrets ; I may 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


439 


even add, that lie only tells me what 
he tells every one else.’’ 

u Well, as I am not the Duke of 
Anjou, and as I love my friends as I 
love myself, I do not hesitate to tell 
you, my dear count, that serious 
events are in contemplation, and that 
the parties of Anjou and Guise are 
preparing to strike a blow which may 
result in creating a vacancy on the 
throne.” 

Bussy mistrusted Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, but such was the frank 
expression of the latter’s countenance 
as he conveyed this information, that 
it was impossible to refuse credence 
to it. 

u Count,” he replied accordingly, 
u you know that 1 am the Duke of 
Anjou’s man ; that is to say, that he 
can command my life and sword. The 
King, against whom I have never un- 
lertaken anything openly, bears me 
Jl-will, and has never missed an op- 
portunity of either doing or saying 
something disagreeable to me. And, 
to-morrow” — here Bussy lowered his 
voice — u I mention this, mark me, in 
strict confidence — to-morrow, I shall 
risk my life to humble Henry of Va- 
lois, in the persons of his favorites.” 
“ And so,” asked Monsoreau, 
Ci you are determined to submit to all 
the consequences of your attachment 
to the cause of the Duke of Anjou ?” 
u I am ” 

u Are you aware of how far such a 
determination may lead you ?” 

u I am aware of where I am deter- 
mined to stop. Whatever ground of 
complaint 1 may have against the 
King, I will never raise my hand 
against the Lord’s anointed. Let 
others act as they please, my part 
will not be either to strike or to chal- 
lenge, but simply to follow my Lord 
of Anjou, and defend him in case of 
need.” 

Monsieur de Monsoreau was silent 
for an instant, and then placing his 
hand on Bussy’s shoulder, he ad- 
dressed him as follows : 

u My dear count, the Duke of An- 
jou is a cowardly and perfidious trai- 


tor, capable of sacrificing either 'Ho 
fear or jealousy, his most faithful ser- 
vants, or his most devoted friend. 
Leave him to himself, my dear count, 
follow the advice of a friend ; go and 
pass the whole day to-morrow at your 
cottage, at Vincennes — go where you 
please, but be not present at the re- 
ligious procession to-morrow.” 

Bussy fixed his eyes on Monsoreau 
as he replied : 

u But, since such is your advice to 
me, why do you not follow it your- 
self ?” 

u Because, for reasons which con- 
cern my honor, I have occasion for 
him, for some time longer.” 

u Something like myself,” said 
Bussy, u for reasons which concern my 
honor, I shall wait on him at the 
procession to-morrow.” 

Count de Monsoreau shook Bussy 
warmly by the hand, and took leave 
of him. 

We have already related, in the 
preceding chapter, what occurred the 
following day at the King’s levee. 

Monsoreau, on his return home, in- 
formed Madame de Monsoreau of his 
intended departure for Compiegne, 
and at the same time issued orders 
to prepare for it. 

Diana was well pleased. 

She knew from her husband, 
of Bussy’s purposed duel with 
D’Epernon ; but she likewise knew 
that of all the King’s minions, 
D’Epernon was the one who had the 
least reputation for skill and courage ; 
she had, therefore, no fears for the 
result, and it was even with secret 
pride, that she saw the gallant knight 
brave a danger, from which he was 
sure to extricate himself with honor. 

Bussy had called on the duke in 
the morning, and had accompanied 
him to the Louvre, but he entered no 
further, be it understood, than the 
gallery. After his interview with his 
brother, the duke was again joined 
by Bussy, and the whole of the royal 
party proceeded toward Saint-Ge- 
main l’Auxerrois. 

When he saw Bussy so frank, so 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


m 


honorable a o v ; 1, the prince ! 

had felt a few prickings of remorse, 
but there were two things at work 
in him to check good intentions ; the 
first was, the great sway which the 
vigorous intellect of Bussy had ac- 
quired over him, the consciousness of 
which made him fear that although 
Bussy stood beside his throne as his 
lieutenant, he was, in fact, the real 
King; the second was Bussy’s passion 
for Madame de Monsoreau, a passion 
which gave the prince all the tortures 
of pride and jealousy. 

On the other hand, Monsoreau 
gave him as much cause for alarm 
and hatred almost as Bussy ; in this 
position, ho argued with himself as 
follows : 

u Either Bussy will accompany me, 
and by supporting me by his courage, 
will cause my plans to succeed, in 
which case it will little matter wliat 
Monsoreau may say or do. Or else, 
Bussy will separate from me, in which 
case I shall owe him nothing, and it 
will then be my turn to separate from 
him.” 

The result of these considerations, 
of which Bussy was the object, was, 
that the prince kept his eye constant- 
ly fixed on the young knight ; he saw 
him enter the church with a calm and 
smiling countenance, after courteouslv 
making way for his adversary, Mon- 
sieur D’Epernon, and then come and 
kneel a little behind himself. 

After a moment’s pause, the prince 
made a sign to Bussy to draw near, 
for in the position Avhich the latter 
had chosen, the duke could not see 
him without turning his head. He 
had him now on his left, and could 
overlook him by merely turning his 
eyes. 

Nothing occurred until about a 
quarter of an hour after the, com- 
mencement of mass, when Remy en- 
tered the church, and knelt down by 
his master’s side. The duke started 
at the appearance of the leech, know- 
ing him to be the confidant of Bussy’s 
most secret thoughts. 

Was it surprising that after a few 


words exchanged in whispers, a note 
should slip from the hands of Remy 
into the hands of the count ? 

No ; but it was, nevertheless, 


a 


circumstance that made the blood 
tingle in the prince’s veins. The 
superscription was in a small and 
delicately formed hand. 

u It is from her,” said the duke. 
u She writes him that her husband is 
about leaving for Paris.” 

Bussy slipped the note into his 
hat, opened it and read it. 

The paper was thus concealed from 
the prince’s view, but not so Bussy’s 
countenance, which was beaming with 
joy and love. 

u Ah, woe to you if you do not ac- 
company me !” muttered the prince. 

Bussy raised the note to his lips, 
and then placed it near his heart. 

The duke looked round him. If 
Monsoreau had been near, probably he 
would not have waited until evening 
to betray Bussy’s secret. 

As soon as mass was over, the as- 
semblage returned to the Louvre, 
where a collation awaited the King in 
his apartments, and the nobles and 
gentlemen in the gallery. The 
Suisses were paraded in line at the 
Louvre gate, and the French guards, 
under the command of Crillon, were 
under arms in the court-yard. 

Chicot kept as close a watch on the 
King, as the Duke of Anjou did on 
Bussy. 

As the duke was entering the 
palace, Bussy went up and spoke to 
him. 

u I beg pardon, my lord,” said he, 
bowing, u but time presses, and I 
have two words to say to your High- 
ness.” 

u Is the matter urgent ?” 

u Very urgent.” 

u Will it not do to wait for the pro- 
cession ? We will walk side by side.” 

u My lord will excuse me, but I 
have stopped your Highness to solicit 
your permission to absent myself from 
the procession.” 

u To absent yourself !” exclaimed 
the duke, in an altered voice. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


441 


* l My lord, to-morrow will be a 
great day, for, as your Highness 
knows, it will decide the quarrel be- 
tween France and Anjou. I am de- 
sirous of passing the remainder of 
this day at Vincennes, in devotional 
exercises.” 

u Then you will not join the pro- 
cession which the whole court is to 
join — which the King himself is to 
join ?” 

u No, my lord, with the permission, 
always, of your Highness.” 

u You will not even join me at 
Sainte-Genevieve ?’’ 

“ My lord, 1 would have the re- 
mainder of the day to myself.” 

u But,” said the duke, u if, in the 
course of the day, an occasion should 
arise wherein the swords of my friends 
might be of service to me” — 

u As the only occasion that can 
arise is one wherein my lord might 
expect me to draw my sword against 
my King, I have an additional rea- 
son for soliciting leave of absence,” 
replied Bussy. u My sword is en- 
gaged against Monsieur d’ Epernon.” 
Monsoreau had told the prince, the 
preceding day, that he might rely on 
Bussy : now, everything was changed, 
and, of course, it was to be inferred 
that the change was caused by the 
note which Le Haudouin had brought 
with him to church. 

u And so,” said the duke, grind- 
ing his teeth, u you will separate 
from your master ?” 

u My lord,” said Bussy, u a man 
who is to risk his life to-morrow in a 
desperate, bloody and mortal quarrel 
— as ours will be, I can answer for 
that — a man in such a position has 
but one master, and that master shall 
certainly have what may be my last 
thoughts on earth.” 

u You know that I arn going to 
play for a throne, and you refuse To 
stand by me !” 

u My lord, I have struck many a 
blow in your quarrel, and I shall 
strike a few more to-morrow. You 
cannot ask me for more than my life.” 
u It is well !” replied the duke. 


u You are free — go, Monsieur de 
Bussy !” 

Bussy, without concerning himself 
about this sudden coldness, saluted 
the prince, hastened down the grand- 
staircase, and, as soon as he was out- 
side of the palace, proceeded rapidly 
toward his own residence. 

The duke beckoned to Aurilly. 
u Well, my lord ?” asked the lute- 
player. 

u Well, he himself has sealed his 
fate !” 

u Will he not bear you company ?” 
“ No.” 

a He received an appointment by 
that note !” 

u The thing is positive.” 
u Then it is for this evening ?” 
u For this evening, of course.” 
u Has Monsieur de Monsoreau been 
warned ?” 

u Of the appointment ? Yes ; but 
he knows not as yet whom he will 
find there.” 

u Are you resolved to sacrifice the 
count ?” 

u I am resolved to be revenged,” 
said the prince, u and I now only fear 
one thing.” 

“ Which is ?” 

u That Monsoreau may rely upon 
his personal skill and strength, and 
that so Bussy may escape.” 

u My lord may make himself easy.” 
u Explain.” 

u Is Monsieur de Bussy positively 
condemned ?” 

u Yes, Mordieu! What — a man 
who holds me in leading-strings — who 
has taken from me my will and made 
it his own — who has taken from me 
my mistress and made her his own— 
a species of lion of which I am less 
the master than the keeper ! ! Yes, 
yes, Aurilly, he is condemned with- 
out appeal — without mercy !” 

u Well, as I said, my lord may 
make himself easy. Though he 
should escape Monsoreau, he will not 
escape another friend of his.” 
u Whom do you mean ?” 
u Does my lord command me ta 
name him ?” 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


442 

“ Yes.” 
u Monsieur d’Epernon.” 
u D’Epernon — D’Epernon ! The 

man who is to fight him to-morrow ?’’ 
u The same, my lord.” 
u Come, tell me all about it.” 
Aurilly was about to begin his sto- 
ry, when the duke was called away. 
The King was at table, and was won- 
dering at the duke’s absence. It is 
true that he wondered at it because 
he was told to do so by Chicot, who 
was the first to remark it. 

u You will tell me your story dur- 
ing the procession,” said the prince, 
as he followed the usher who had been 
dispatched for him. 

As our attention will now be en- 
gaged by matters of great importance, 
and as, therefore, we shall not have 
leisure to follow the duke and Aurilly 
through the streets of Paris, we shall 
here state what had passed between 
D’Epernon and the lute-player. 

That very morning, at break of day, 
D’Epernon had called at the Hotel 
d’Anjou and inquired for Aurilly. 

The young noble and the musician 
were old acquaintances ; they stood 
toward each other in the relation of 
pupil and master, and had often met 
to practise the viol and scrape the 
bass, as was the custom at that period 
not only in Spain but in France. 

The consequence was that a tender 
friendship, regulated by etiquette, 
united the two harmonists. 

Moreover, Monsieur d’Epernon, 
who was a Gascon, and subtle like all 
his countrymen, practised the method 
of insinuation, which consists in 
reaching masters through their valets, 
and, consequently, there were few 
secrets at the Hotel d’Anjou of 
which he was not kept informed by 
his friend Aurilly. 

We may add that, by applying his 
diplomatic ability, he contrived to 
keep fair with both the King and the 
duke. He wisely saw that it was im- 
portant for him not only to retain the 
good graces of the reigning King, but 
likewise to be ready at any time to 
jump into the good graces of the 
King that was to be. 


His present visit to Aurilly Kad for 
its object, to converse with him about 
his duel with Bussy. It was, in fact, 
an affair that gave him great uneasi 
ness. During his long life, the peo- 
minent feature of D’Epernon’s char- 
acter never was bravery ; now, it 
needed to be more than brave — it 
needed to be reckless — to venture 
upon an encounter with Bussy; to 
fight him was to face certain death. 
Some, who had ventured, had mea- 
sured their length on the ground, 
from which they had never risen. 

At the very first word uttered by 
D’Epernon, on the subject which oc- 
cupied all his thoughts, the musician, 
aware of the concealed hatred enter- 
tained by his master toward Bussy, 
pricked up his ears. Condoling with 
his pupil, he informed him with great 
tenderness of feeling, that for a week 
past, Monsieur de Bussy had been 
practising with a trumpeter in the 
guards, the keenest swordsman that 
had appeared in Paris for many a 
day. According to Aurilly, he was a 
species of artist in matters of fence, 
a traveller and a philosopher, who 
combined in one harmonious whole 
the safe and cautious play of the 
Italians, the subtle and brilliant feints 
of the Spaniards, and the inflexible 
muscle of the Germans ; and this 
combination, added Aurilly, was fur- 
ther improved by additions borrowed 
from the volts, curvettings and sud- 
den prostrations of the barbarian Po- 
landers, then called Sarmatians. 

D’Epernon, during this long enu- 
meration, ate up all the carmine which 
was used to color his nails. 

u Why, I am as good as dead !” 
said he, with a forced laugh. 
u Ahem !” ejaculated Aurilly. 
“Why, it would be absurd,” cried 
D’Epernon, “ to go on the ground 
with a man who is sure to kill ! It is 
like throwing dice with a man who is 
sure of bringing double six at every 
throw !” 

u You should have thought of that 
sooner, Monsieur le Due.” 

u Plague take the fellow ! I must 
get out of the scrape — a man is not a 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


4*13 


55 


55 


55 


Gascon for nothing. A fool is he 1 

o i 

who voluntarily consents to surrender j 
life, especially when he is only twen- I 
tv-five vc&rs of age. Hut let me ! 
think — yes, the proposition is per- j 
fectly correct and logical — listen. ” 

44 I listen.” 

“ Monsieur de Bussv is sure of kill- 

•/ 

ing me, you say ?” 

14 I have not the least doubt of it.” 

4k Then, it will be no longer a duel, 
if he is sure ; it will be a murder.” 

44 To the point.” 

44 And if it will be murder, why 
“ Well ?” 

44 It is allowable to prevent mur- 
der by— 

“By 

44 By — murder.” 

44 Doubtless.” 

44 Since he wants to kill me, what 
is to prevent me from killing him ?” 

44 Oh, mon Dieu ! nothing at all ; 
and I was myself thinking of the ex- 
pedient.” 

44 The proposition is correct ?” 

44 Perfectly correct.” 

44 And logical ?” 
u And logical.” 

44 Only, do you see, instead of kill- 
ing him cruelly in person— that is to 
say, as he wants to kill me — as I can- 
not hear the sight of blood, I shall 
entrust the business to some other 
parties.” 

44 That is to say, you will hire bra- 
vos ?” 

44 You have hit it ! Just as Mon- 
sieur de Guise and Monsieur de May- 
enue did in the case of Saint-Ale- 

grin. 

4k It will cost you much money.” 

44 1 will pay three thousand crowns.” 
44 For three thousand crowns you 
can scarcely get more than six men.” 
44 Will they not be enough ?” 

44 Six men ! Monsieur de Bussy 
will have killed four of them before he 
has received even a scratch. Do you 
iorget the skirmish in the Rue Saint- 
Antoine, when he wounded Schoin- 
Derg in the thigh, you in the arm, 
and almost killed Quelus ?” 

44 1 will pay six thousand crowns, if 
necessary,” said D’Epernon. 44 Mor- 


dieu ! if I do the thing at all, I want it 
so well done that he shall not escape.” 
44 You have selected your men ?” 
said Aurilly. 

44 Why,” said D’Epernon, 44 I have 
picked up a few idle fellows, dis- 
banded soldiers — bravos, if you please 
— aye, and better bravos than those 
of Venice or Florence.” 

44 Good, very good ! But, take 
care.” 

44 Of what ?” 

44 If they fail, they will betray you 
as their employer.” 

44 I have the King on my side.” 

44 That is something ; but the 
King cannot prevent Monsieur do 
Bussy from killing you.” 

44 True — perfectly true !” said D’- 
Epernon, thoughtfully. 

44 1 can point out a way.” 

44 Speak, my dear fellow, speak !” 
44 But, perhaps you would not like 
to combine with another party?” 

44 Nothing will be repugnant to me, 
that will double my chance of getting 
rid of that mad dog.” 

44 Hear, then. A certain enemy of 
your enemy is jealous.” 

44 Ha !” 

44 And at this very moment” — - 
4 4 Well — at this very moment, say 


you 




44 He is laying a trap for him.” 

44 What next ?” 

4 4 But he wants money. For six thou* 
sand crowns, he will do your business, 
and his own ; I suppose you are not anx- 
ious to have the honor of the affair ?” 

44 Oh, no ! On the contrary, I want 
to remain in the back- ground.” 

O 

44 Then, send your men to the ap- 
pointed place — without naming your- 
self — and he will make use of them.” 
44 Although my men need not know 
me, I must know your man.” 

44 I will point him out to you in 
the course of the morning.” 

44 Where ?” 

44 At the Louvre.” 

44 Then, he is a gentleman.” 

44 Yes.” 

44 Aurilly, the money will be 
ready, wdienever you call for it.” 

44 Then it is decided?” 


a 4 

:>/' v 


444 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Irrevocably.” 
u At the Louvre, then ?” 
u At the Louvre.” 

It will be recollected that it is stat- 
ed in the preceding chapter, how Au- 
rilly said to D’Epernon : 


Crillon and his regiment of guards 
were desirous of escorting the King, 
and were only held back on Henry’s 
express orders, that they should re- 
main behind to guard the Louvre. 

It was past one o’clock when the 


u Make your mind easy, Monsieur procession started from the palace, 
de Bussy will not fight you to-mor- 
row.” 


It was near six o’clock in the eve- 
ning, after having made stations at 
the different altars, when the proces- 
sion came in sight of the indented 
portal of the old abbey, where the 
prior, surrounded by his canons, stood 
, ready to receive the King. 

On the way from the last station, 
Immediately after the collation, the which had been made at the Capucin 


CHAPTER IX. 


King retired to his room with Chicot, 
to put on his penitent dress. Accord- 
ingly, when he again made his ap- 
pearance, he was bare-footed, had a 
cord round his waist, and a cowl over 
his head. 

The courtiers had all put on the 
same uniform. 


convent, to the abbey, the Duke of 
Anjou, who had been on foot ever 
since morning, complained of fatigue, 
and requested the King’s permission 
to retire to his own hotel. The King 
was consenting. 

His gentlemen also separated from 
the procession and retired with him, 


The weather was splendid ; the thereby openly marking that it was 
streets were strewn with flowers, all the duke and not the King, whom 


the talk was of altars, each one more 
magnificent than the other, and es- 
pecially of the one erected by the 
canons of Sainte -Genevieve, in the 
vaults of their church. 

V ast multitudes lined the approach- 
es to the four stations which the King 
intended to make, that is to say at 
the Jacobins, at the Carmelites, at the 
Capucins and at the Geneovefins. 

The clergy of Sainte-Germain P- 
Auxerrois opened the procession, and 
the Archbishop of Paris carried the 
Host. Between the clergy and the 
Archbishop, walked young boys 
waving censers, and young girls scat- 
tering roses. 

Then came the King, bare-footed, 


they had followed so far. 

But the fact was, that as three of 
them were to fight the next morning, 
they were desirous to avoid over-fa- 
tiguing themselves. 

At the abbey gate, the King, be- 
ing of opinion that Quelus, Maugi- 
ron, Schomberg and D’Epernon, had 
not less occasion for rest than Liva- 
rot, Riberac and Antraguet, gave his 
party leave of absence likewise. 

The Archbishop, who had been of- 
ficiating since morning, without re- 
freshment of any kind, and his clergy 
who were in the same predicament, 
were all ready to drop from fatigue. 
The King, taking compassion on the 
pious martyrs, dismissed them all at 


as has been said, and attended by the Abbey gate, 
his four friends, bare-footed and be- ; Then turning round to the prior, 


gowned like their master. 

n 1 !, _ T'x.-.i. .. n k • 


Joseph Foulon : 


The Duke d’ Anjou came next, i u I have come, father,” said he, 
but dressed as usual ; he was attend- speaking through his nose — u sinner 
ed by the whole Angevin court, in that I am — to seek repose within your 


which were mingled the great digni- 
taries of the crown, each in the place 
assigned to him by etiquette. 

Lastly, came the citizens and po- 
pulace. 


peaceful walls.” 

The prior bowed. 

Then, addressing those who had 
stood out the severe trials of the day, 
and who had followed, step by step • 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


445 


44 I thank you all, gentlemen,” said 
he — 44 go in peace.” 

The gentlemen bowed respectfully, 
and the royal penitent, striking his 
breast, ascended the abbey steps. 

As soon as he had crossed the 
threshold, the doors were closed be- 
hind him. 

The King was so deeply absorbed 
in meditation, that this latter circum- 
stance seemed to have escaped his 
notice. In fact, seems: that he had 
dismissed all his attendants, it was 
perhaps both natural and proper 
that the doors should be closed. 

44 We shall first,” said the prior to 
the King, 44 conduct your Majesty to 
the vaults, which we have decorated 
to the best of our ability, in honor 
of the King of Heaven and earth.” 

The King motioned his assent and 
followed the prior. 

But no sooner had he disappeared 
under the gloomy arcade, which was 
lined on both sides by silent and 
motionless monks — no sooner had 
lie turned the corner of the yard lead- 
ing to the church, than twenty cowls 
were thrown aside, and the joy and 
pride of triumph were expressed in 
every eye. 

Of a surety, these were not the fa- 
ces of fat and lazy monks ; thick 
mustaches and browned complexions 
indicated strength and activity ; many 
of them exhibited traces of scars, 
and close by the proudest, haughtiest 
of the party — close by him, who was 
marked by the most celebrated and 
illustrious scar, was standing a wo- 
man, wrapped in a gown, and mani- 
festing without restraint her delight 
at the present posture of affairs. 

She was swinging to and fro a pair 
of gold scissors, which hung from a 
chain at her waist, and exclaiming: 

44 Ah, brothers, we have Valois 
within our clutches at last !” 

44 I’faith, I think so, too !” said the 
Balafre. 

44 Not yet, not yet,” murmured the 
Cardinal. 

“ Why not ?” 

44 Because, it is doubtful whether 
we have a sufficient force of citizen 


troops to stand our ground against 
Crillon and his guards.” 

44 We have better than citizen 
troops,” replied the Duke of May- 
enne, 44 and rely upon it, there will 
be no occasion to fire a single mus- 
ket.” 

44 Let us hear,” said the Dutchess 
of Montpensier, 44 how you are going 
to taanage. For my part I should 
like a little stir.” 

44 Well, I am sorry to say, sister, 
that you will have none. When the 
King finds that he is caught, he will 
cry out, but there will be no one to 
hear his cries. We will then induce 
him either by persuasion or violence, 
but without showing ourselves, to sign 
his abdication. The abdication will 
then be circulated throughout the city, 
and will bring over the soldiers to our 
side. The citizens we have already.” 
44 The plan is wisely laid, and can- 
not fail,” said the Duchess. 

44 Rather brutal though,” said the 
Cardinal of Guise, shaking his head. 

44 The King will refuse to sign,” 
added the Balafre — 44 he is brave, and 
will prefer death.” 

44 Then let him die !” cried the 
Duchess and Mayenne. 

44 No,” said the Duke of Guise, 
firmly, 44 no ! I may consent to suc- 
ceed a despised prince who voluntari- 
ly relinquishes an office for which he 
is unfit ; but I will never consent to 
take the place of a murdered King, 
who will be sure to be pitied ! Beside, 
in your plans, you forget my lord the 
Duke of Anjou, who, in the event of 
the King’s death, will claim the 
throne.” 

44 Let him claim, Morbleu — let him 
claim !” said the Duke of Mayenne. 
44 Our brother the Cardinal has fore- 
seen the possibility of this. My lord 
the Duke of Anjou will be included 
in the instrument setting forth his 
brother’s abdication. My lord the 
Duke of Anjou has had dealings with 
the Huguenots, and has thereby for- 
feited all right to the crown.” 

44 With the Huguenots * Are you 
sure of that 

44 Pardieu ! Was it not by the as 


445 


DIANA OF MERIDOR. 


V 


gi stance of Henry of Navarre that he 
made his escape ?” 

“ True.” 

cc And then the same instrument 
will contain a clause in favor of our 
house : there will be a clause ap- 
pointing you, brother, Lieutenant- 
General of the kingdom, and from 
the lieutenancy to the throne there is 
but a step.” 

u Yes, yes,” said the cardinal. L I 
have, it is true, arranged all that ; 
but I dread lest the French guards 
should force the abbey, to ascertain if 
the abdication be real, and especially 
if it be voluntary : Crillon under- 

stands no nonsense, and he will say 
to the king — c Sire, your life is in 
danger — we cannot help that, but we 
can save your honor.” 

u Ah, as for Crillon and his guards,” 
said Maycnne, u it was the general’s 
business to make provision against 
them, and he has done so. We have 
here a garrison of some eighty gentle- 
men, and I have distributed arms to 
upwards of a hundred monks. We 
could stand out for a month against 
an armv. Beside, if we should be 
driven to extremity, we can escape 
with our prisoner through the under- 
ground vault.” 

u Does any one know what the 
Duke of Anjou is about ?” 

u As usual, he falters in the hour 
of danger. He is now at his own 
quarters, and with Bussy on one side 
and Monsoreau on the other, is doubt- 
less anxiously expecting to hear from 
us.” 

u Zounds, it is here he should be, 
and not at home !” 

u I do not agree with you, bro- 
ther,” said the cardinal ; u the pre- 
sence of both brothers here would look 
like a conspiracy against the whole 
family : we must avoid awakening the 
suspicions of the people and nobility : , 
we must avoid everything that looks 
like usurpation : our claim must be j 
made to rest on hereditary right. By 
not molesting the Duke of Anjou or 
the Queen-mother, we shall obtain the 
good will of all, we shall strengthen j 


our hold over our own partisans, and 
in fact, no one will have the least 
word to say against us. By any other 
line of conduct, we shall arm against 
us Bussy, and a hundred other dan- 
gerous and expert men.” 

u Bah ! Bussy is to fight the min- 
ions to-morrow.’” 

u Pardieu, and he will kill them ! 
An hour’s work ! Beside, Bussy 
must join us in the end,” said the 
Duke of Guise. u As for me, I shall 
give him the command of the army of 
Italy, where, no doubt, we shall have 
war. The lord of Bussy is quite a 
superior person, and I have the great- 
est esteem for him.” 

u And as a proof that I do not es- 
teem him less than you, brother.” 
said the Duchess of Montpensier, u it 
is my purpose to marry him as soon 
as I shall be a widow.” 

u Marry him, sister !” cried May- 
enne. 

u Why not ?” said the Duchess, 
“ greater dames than myself have done 
more for him without his being a gen- 
eral.” 

u Well, well,” said Mayenne, 
u that will be a matter for considera- 
tion hereafter. Let us now to 
work !” 

u Who is with the King ?” asked 
the Duke of Guise. 

u The prior and Gorenflot, I be- 
lieve,” said the cardinal ; u he must 
see only familiar faces, at first, lest 
he should take the alarm.” 

u Yes,’’ said Mayenne, u let us eat 
the fruit, without plucking it.” 
u Is he in his cell, yet ?” asked 
Madame de Montpensieur, impatient 
to give the King the third crown she 
had been promising him for so long a 
time. 

u Oh, no ! He is first to visit the 
grand altar in the crypt ; after which, 
he will pay his devotions to the holy 
relics.” 

u And after that ?” 
u The prior is then to address him 
in well sounding phrase on the vanity 
of the things of this earth : after 

which, Brother Gorenflot, the same 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


447 


you know, who delivered the splendid 
sermon, the eyening of the League” — 
u Yes — well ?” 

u Brother Gorenflot will try and 
work on his conscience, and perhaps 
obtain from his own free will, what, 
otherwise, we shall be compelled to 
use force to obtain.” 

u It will be much better so,” said 
the Duke, musing. 

u Henry is superstitious and weak 
in body,” said Mayenne. u He will 
yield to the fear of hell, I will answer 
for it.” 

u I am not so sure of that, ’’said the 
Duke : u however, we have burned our 
ships, and we cannot now retreat. 
Let the prior and brother Gorenflot 
make trial of their eloquence, and if 
both fail, it will remain for us to ap- 
ply intimidation as a last resource.” 
u And then I shall crop the Va- 
lois!” cried the Duchess, still harp- 
ing on her favorite idea. 

The ringing of a bell was heard 
through the vaults, now darkening 
under the advancing shadows of 
night. 

u The King is on his way to the 
crypt,” said the Duke of Guise : 
u come, Mayenne, call your friends, 
and let us resume the march.” 

Cowls were immediately drawn 
over bold foreheads, flashing eyes, 
and warlike scars, and some thirty or 
forty monks, guided by the three friars, 
moved toward the entrance to the 
crypt. 


CHAPTER X 

CHICOT I. 

The King was wrapped in a holy 
meditation which seemed to pro- 
mise an easy success to the projects 
of the Messieurs de Guise. 

Accompanied by the whole reli- 
gious community, he visited the crypt, 
kissed the shrine, and when all these 
ceremonies were concluded, commen- 


ced striking his breast with devout 
fervor, reciting all the while the peni- 
tential psalms. 

This was the moment selected by 
the friar for making his exhortations, 
to which the King listened with all 
the outward signs of sincere contri- 
tion. 

At length, on a sign from the Duke 
of Guise, Joseph bowed before Henry 
and spoke : 

u Sire, is it now your pleasure to 
proceed to offer your earthly crown at 
the feet of the Master of us all ?” 
u Let us proceed,” was the King’s 
answer. 

And the whole company, after 
forming a line for the King’s passage, 
proceeded toward the cells, the prin- 
cipal corridor of which was visible on 
the left. 

Henry seemed to be greatly affect- 
ed. His hands kept unceasingly 
beating his breast, and his large 
rosary, as it passed through his fin- 
gers, rang against the death’s head 
suspended at his waist. 

At the door of the cell intended 
for the King, stood Gorenflot, his 
face inflamed, and his eyes shining 
like carbuncles. 

u Here ?” asked the King. 
u Here,” answered the monk. 

Why should the King hesitate ? 
At the end of the corridor was a door, 
or rather a mysterious grating, open- 
ing on a rapid descent, beyond which 
all was gloomy obscurity. 

Accordingly, Henry entered the 
cell. 

u Hie port us salutis /” he mur- 
mured, in a tone of sincere feeling. 

u Yes,” replied Foulon, u we have 
reached the port.” 

u Leave us,” said Gorenflot, with 
an air of majesty. 

The door was closed, and the de- 
parting footsteps of the company 
were heard in the distance. 

The King, noticing a w T ooden stool 
at the opposite end of the cell, sat 
down on it, his hands resting on his 
knees. 

u And so, there thou art, Herod f 
There thou art, heathen ! There thou 


448 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


art, Nabuchodonsor !” exclaimed Go- 
renflot, without further preamble, 
and resting his large hands on his 
hips. 

The King looked surprised. 

“ Are you speaking to me, bro- 
ther ?” said he. 

u Yes, I am speaking to thee. To 
whom else should I speak ? Is any 
name too hard for such as thou art ?” 
u Brother !” murmured the King. 
u Bah, thou hast no brother here ! 
I have been long enough composing 
my sermon — thou must hear it. Like 
every good preacher, I shall divide it 
into three points. In the first place, 
thou art a tyrant ; in the next place, 
thou art a satyr ; and thirdly, thou 
art dethroned. I shall now pro- 
ceed to particulars.” 

“ Dethroned, brother !” burst forth 
the King, from his dark corner. 

u Neither more nor less. We are 
not here in Poland, and thou shalt 
not escape” — 

u Why, I am in a trap !” 
u Oh, Valois, learn that a King is 
no more than a man, if indeed he be 
as much as a man !” 
u Violence, brother !” 
u Pardieu , dost thou imagine that 
after making a prisoner of thee, we 
are going to stand upon trifles ?” 
u You are making an abuse of re- 
ligion, brother.” 

u Is there such a thing as religion ?” 
cried Gorenflot. 

u Oh !” said the King, u do my 
ears hear aright ! Such language 
from a saint !” 

u So much the worse. I have out 
with it !” 

a You will damn yourself.” 
cc Is there such a thing as damna- 
tion ?” 

u You speak like an unbeliever, 
brother.” 

u Come, no stupid remarks ! Art 
thou ready, Valois ?” 
u To do what ?” 

c< To lay down thy crown : I am 
appointed to press the matter on 
thy attention, and I do so.” 

“ Why, you are committing a mor- 
tal sin.” 


u Ho, ho !” cried Gorenflot, with a 
cynical laugh.” u I can absolve my- 
self. Come, Valois, give it up.” 
u Give up what ?” 
u The crown of France.” 
u Death, rather !” 
u Ha ! die thou shalt — See, here 
comes the prior. Be quick.” 

u I have friends, my guards. I 
shall defend myself.” 

u Possibly, but not before you are 
a dead man.” 

u At least, grant me a moment for 
reflection.” 

u Not an instant, — not a second.” 
u Your zeal carries you too far,” 
said the prior. 

And motioning to the King, he in- 
timated : 

u Sire, your request is granted.” 
The prior again went out, closing 
the door behind him. 

Henry reflected. 

u After all,” said he, u we had 
better make this sacrifice.” 

Ten minutes passed while Henry 
was reflecting : a knock was heard at 
the wicket of the door. 

u It is done,” cries Gorenflot, u he 
accepts.” 

The King heard murmurs of sur- 
prise and satisfaction along the corri- 
dor. 

u Read the parchment to him,” 
said a voice, which startled the King, 
so much so, that he looked through 
the grating. 

A roll of parchment was handed to 
Gorenflot by one of the monks. 

After a good deal of trouble, Go- 
renflot got through the reading of 
the instrument. The King, hold- 
ing his face in his hands, seemed to 
be overwhelmed with grief. 

u And if I refuse to sign ?” cried 
he, piteously. 

“You will doubly destroy your- 
self,” said the Duke of Guise, in a 
voice deadened by its passage througU 
the cowl. “ Look upon yourself as 
lost to the world, and do not compel 
your subjects to shed the bioou of a 
man, once their king.” 

u Never will I yield to force ' said 
i Henry. 


THE LADY OF M3NSOREAU. 


449 


u I expected this,” muttered the 
Duke of Guise to his sister. Madame 
de Montpernier frowned ; there was 
evil in her eye. 

u Go, brother,” added the duke, 
addressing Mayenne, u call in all our 
friends, and let them be ready.” 
a For what ?” added the King in 
a doleful voice. 

u For anything — everything,” re- 
plied Joseph Foulon. 

The King’s despair redoubled. 
u Corblisu !” cried Gorenflot. u I 
have always hated thee, Valois; but, 
now, I despise thee. Come, sign, or 
thou shalt perish by my hand.” 
u Oh, give me time,” said the King, 
u Give me time to invoke the Lord 
of all, that he may teach me to be re- 
signed to my fate.” 

u He wants more time to reflect,” 
cried Gorenflot. 

u Give him until midnight,” said 
the cardinal. 

u Thank you, charitable Christian,” 
said the King, in a paroxysm of grief. 
u God will reward thee.” 

u His intellect is really gone,” 
said the Duke of Guise : u we render 
good service to France in dethroning 
him.” 

u No matter,” said the duchess, 
u intellect or no intellect, I shall have 
the pleasure of cropping him.” 

Pending this conversation, Goren- 
flot, with his arms folded, was load- 
ing Henry with the most violent 
abuse, of which his dissipated life was 
the theme. 

Of a sudden, voices were heard at 
the convent gates. 

All was instantly hushed inside. 
Blow after blow, struck at equal in- 
tervals, resounded from the gates. 

Mayenne hurried out as fast as his 
large person could move. 

u Brothers,” cried he, when he re- 
turned, u a troop of armed men are 
at the portal !” 

u They have come for him,” said 
the duchess. 

Then he must sign on the spot,” 
said the cardinal. 

u Sign, Valois, sign,” cried Gorem 
clot, in a voice of thunder. 


u You gave me until midnight,” 
said the King, almost crying. 

u Oh, then, thou hast altered thy 
mind, because thou hopest for help ?” 
u Certainly, I have a chance.” 
cc To die, if he does not sign in- 
stantly,” rejoined the sharp and im- 
perious voice of the duchess. 

Gorenflot seized the King’s hand, 
and presented a pen. 

The noise outside was increasing. 
u A fresh troop !” cried a monk, 
rushing in, u the square is surround- 
ed !” 

u Come !” impatiently cried the 
duchess and Mayenne. 

The King dipped his pen in the ink. 
u The Suisses!” cried Foulon, 
rushing in, u they have taken pos- 
session of the cemetery : the abbey is 
now surrounded on all sides.” 

66 Well, we will defend ourselves,” 
replied Mayenne, resolutely ; u with 
such a hostage as we possess, a place 
can never be compelled to surrender 
at discretion.” 

u He has signed !” yelled Goren- 
flot, snatching the parchment from 
the hands of Henry, who, completely 
cast down, hid his face in his cowl, 
grasping it with both his hands. 

u Then, we are king,” said the 
cardinal to the duke ; u take the pre- 
cious document.” 

The King, in the agitation of his 
grief, upset the only lamp, a small 
one, which illuminated this scene : 
but the Duke of Guise already held 
the parchment. 

u What is to be done — what is to 
be done ?” cried a new comer, under 
whose gown there was no difficulty in 
distinguishing the dress of a gentle- 
man, armed at all points. u Crillon 
is below with the French guards, and 
threatens to force the doors.” 

u In the King’s name !” cried 
| Crillon’s powerful voice. 

u Bah, there is no longer a King !” 
cried Gorenflot. 

u What rascal says that ?” cried 
Crillon. 

“ I, I, I,” cried Gorenflot, from his 
place of concealment, and in the most 
insulting tones. 


450 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Try and see that fellow, and 
lodge me a few balls in his belly,” 
cried Crillon. 

But Gorenflot made a plunge as 
soon as he saw the guards shoulder 
their arms, and fell back into the mid- 
dle of the room. 

u Break in the door, Crillon !” ex- 
claimed a voice in the midst of the 
general silence — a voice which made 
the hair of all the monks, real or 
false, there present, stand on end 

This voice proceeded from a man, 
who just then issued from the ranks, 
and advanced toward the gates of the 
abbey. 

u Look here, Sire,” replied Crillon, 
bestowing a heavy blow with his axe 
on the principal gate. 

u What do you require ?” said the 
trembling prior, going up to a 
window. 

u Ha, is that you, Messire Fou- 
lon !” said the same clear and 
haughty voice. u Let me have my 
fool, who left me to pass the night in 
one of your cells. 1 want my Chicot ; 
I have no one at the Louvre to divert 
me.” 

u I am not so badly off, my son, 
for I am diverting myself to my 
heart’s content,’’ cried Chicot, push- 
ing through the crowd of monks, who 
gave way with shrieks of terror. 

At this moment, the Duke of Guise, 
having procured a lamp, was reading 
at the foot of the parchment, the still 
fresh signature, obtained with so 
much trouble ; he was reading : 

Chicot I. 

u I, Chicot I.,” cried he. u Damna- 
tion !” 

“ The game is up,” said the Car- 
dinal, u let us think of escape.” 

u Ah, bah !” exclaimed Chicot, 
bestowing on Gorenflot, who had well- 
nmh fainted, a succession of blows 
with the cord which fastened his 
waist — u Ah, bah !” 


CHAPTER XI 

CAPITAL AND INTEREST. 

As soon as the conspirators had be 
come aware that it was the King 
who bad spoken, alternate stupor and 
terror seized upon every heart. 

The discovery of the cheat prac- 
tised on them in the affair of the sis- 
nature, changed their terror into 
rage. 

Chicot threw back his gown on his 
shoulders, folded his arms, and while 
Gorenflot was making his escape as 
fast as his legs could carry him, stood 
the first shock, smiling and unflinch- 
ing. 

It was a terrible moment to pass. 
The exasperated gentlemen advanced 
on the Gascon, well resolved to take 
signal satisfaction, for the cruel mys- 
tification of which they were the vic- 
tims. 

But, that unarmed man, his breast 
protected by his two arms only — that 
jeering countenance which seemed to 
defy so much strength to attempt to 
lay hands upon so much weakness, 
stopped them still more, perhaps, than 
the remonstrances of the Cardinal, 
who pointed out to them, that the 
death of Chicot would be of no use 
to them, while, on the other hand, it 
was certain to be terribly avenged by 
the King, the fool’s accomplice in this 
scene of buffoonery. 

The result was, that poniards and 
rapiers were lowered before Chicot, 
who, whether from devotion to his 
cause — and he was capable of it — or 
that he divined what was passing in 
their minds, continued to laugh in 
their faces. 

Meanwhile, the threats of the 
King were becoming louder, and the 
heavy blows of Crillon more telling. 
It was evident that the gate could not 
much longer withstand an attack, 
which was not even resisted. 

Accordingly, the Duke of Guise, 
i after a moment’s deliberation, or- 
dered a retreat. 

This order made Chicot smile. 

He bad taken advantage of the 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


*51 


nights he had passed with Gorenflot, 
to examine the vault, and had dis- 
covered the issue. He had commu- 
nicated his discovery to the King, 
and by the King’s orders, Tocquenot, 
lieutenant of the Swiss guards, was 
stationed there. 

Thus, there was every likelihood 
that the Leaguers would fall, one af- 
ter the other, into the lion’s mouth. 

The Cardinal was the first to dis- 
appear, followed by some twenty gen- 
tlemen ; then, Chicot marked the 
exit of the Duke of Guise, with a 
like number of monks ; Mayenne, 
whose broad and clumsy person was 
never intended for locomotion, natu- 
rally brought up the rear. 

As Monsieur de Mayenne waddled 
past the door of Gorenflot’s cell, Chi- 
cot was ready to split his sides with 
laughter. 

Ten minutes elapsed, and Chicot 
was momentarily expecting to hear 
the Leaguers driven back to the 
vaults, but, to his great surprise, 
the noises, instead of returning, were 
becoming more and more distant. 

Suddenly, a thought struck the 
Gascon, which made him gnash his 
teeth. Time was passing, and the 
Leaguers were not returning ; could 

O O' 

they have discovered another issue ? 

Chicot was in the act of rushing 
from his cell, when his progress was 
suddenly obstructed by a shapeless 
mass tumbling at his feet. A little 
inspection showed the object to be 
human ; as it tossed and rolled, it 
kept tearing its hair and exclaiming : 

u Ah, wretch that I am ! Oh, 
good my lord Chicot, pardon me — 
pardon me.” 

How was it that Gorenflot, who 
had been the first to take to his heels, 
and should consequently be already 
far away, was now back alone ? 

This was the question which natu- 
rally presented itself to Chicot’s mind. 

u Oh, good Monsieur Chicot, dear 
lord Chicot !” Gorenflot continued 
to howl. u Pardon your unworthy 
friend — he will make every amends in 
his power 55 


u Why,” said Chicot, u have you 
not escaped with the other rascals ?” 
u Because I could not get through 
where the others got through, my 
good lord — because the Lord, in his 
anger, hath made me too fat. Oh, un- 
fortunate belly, unfortunate paunch !” 
continued the monk, striking with his 
fists the parts he was apostrophizing. 
u Oh, why am I not as slender as you 
are, Monsieur Chicot ! What a good 
thing, what a fortunate thing, it is to 
be slender.” 

Chicot could make positively no- 
thing of the monk’s complaints. 

u Then, the others are getting 
through somewhere ?” cried he, in a 
voice of thunder. u The others are 
making their escape ?” 

u Pardieu /” said the monk. 
u What would you have them do ? 
Wait to be hanged ! Oh, unfortunate 
paunch !” 

u Silence,” cried Chicot, “ and an- 
swer me.” 

Gorenflot steadied himself on his 
knees. 

u Ask what you please, Monsieur 
Chicot,” he replied. u I am your 
slave.” 

u How are the others making their 

escape ?” 

u As fast as their legs can carry 
them ?” 

u Of course, but through what is- 
sue ?” 

u Through the sky-light.” 
u Mordieu ! what sky-light ?” 
u The sky-light of the cemetery 
vault.” 

u Do you mean of the vault called 
the cellar ?” 

u Yes, dear Monsieur Chicot. 
There was a guard, it seems, outside 
the cellar door ; for just as the great 
Cardinal de Guise was going to open 
it, he hears a Swiss say, 4 Mich dur- 
stetj which means, I am dry.” 

u UdsbudTkins,” cried Chicot, 
I know what that means ! And so 
the fugitives took another road ?” 
u Yes, dear Monsieur Chicot, they 
are making their escape by the ceme- 
tery vault.’ 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


m 


u With what does that vault com- 
municate ?” 

u On one side with the crypt, and 
on the other with the Porte Saint- 
Jacques.” 

“ Thou liest.” 
u My dear lord Chicot !” 
u If they had escaped through the 
vault communicating with the crypt, 
I should have seen them repass by thy 
cell door.” 

u Exactly so, dear Monsieur Chi- 
cot ; they thought they would not 
have time to come back this way, 
and so they passed through the sky- 


light.” 


u What sky-light ?” 
u Through a sky-light which opens 
into the garden, and conveys light to 
the passage.” 

u And so you” — 
u And so I being too fat” — 


“ Well ?” 


u I could never get through ; and 
so, they dragged me back by the feet, 
seeing that I was stopping the way 
and preventing the others from pass- 
ing.” 

u But,” cried Chicot, his counte- 
nance suddenly lighting up with an 
expression of joy, “ if thou wert not 
able to get through” — 

u Never ; and yet, I tried my hard- 
est. Look at my shoulders — look at 
ray breast !’’ 

u Then he who is so much bigger 
than you — ” 
u What he ?” 


u Oh, saints above ! if you will be 
on our side in this matter, I will spend 
my all in wax tapers. Ha, he can- 
not get through !” 
u Monsieur Chicot !” 
u Get up, frockling !” 

The monk got up on his feet as fast 
as he could. 

u Good ! Now show me the way 
to the sky-light.” 

* Anywhere you please, my dear 
lord Chicot.” 

u Walk in front, you rascal, walk 
in front.” 

Gorenflot started at a trot, moving 
along as fast as he could, fro 21 time 
tc time raising his hands to heaven. 


and kept in his paces by the blows 
which Chicot dealt him with hia 
cord. 

They crossed the corridor, and 
reached the garden. 

“ This way,” said Gorenflot, u this 
way.” 

u Be silent and move on, you ras- 
cal !” 

Gorenflot made a last effort, and 
then stopped close by some trees, 
from which groanings seemed to 
issue. 

u There,’’ said he, u there.” 

He could do no more : exhausted 
and out of breath, he sank down on 
the grass. 

Chicot stepped forward, and saw 
something moving on the surface of 
the ground. 

Close by this object, which has been 
described by Diogenes as a two-footed 
animal without feathers, were lying a 
sword and a gown. 

It was evident that the unfortunate 
owner of these articles had, piece by 
piece, divested himself of everything 
that added to his size, so that, for the 
moment, he was reduced to his most 
simple expression. 

He was, like Gorenflot, exerting 
himself to get through the sky-light. 

u S’death — ’sblews, zounds !” cried 
the smothered voice of the fugitive. 
u I had rather pass through the whola 
guard. Gh — ah! Do not pull so hard, 
good fellow, let me slip down gently ; 
I am getting through slowly, but still 
I am getting through !” 

u Udsbuddikins, Monsieur de May- 
enne !” murmured Chicot, in ecstasy. 
u The blessed saints have earned their 
wax tapers !” 

u I have not been surnamed Hercu- 
les for nothing,” resumed the smother- 
ed voice ; u I sliall lift this stone — 
ahem !” 

And he made so violent an effort, 
that the stone moved. 

u Wait,” said Chicot, u wait !” 

He stamped with his feet like a per- 
son arriving in great haste. 

u They are coming,” exclaimed 
several voices in the vault. 

u Ha,” said Chicot, as if quite out 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


453 


breath, “ is that you, you rascally 
monk ?” 


“Chicot !” vociferated the duke. 
u Yes, I, Chicot — Chicot, an un- 


“ Say nothing, my lord,” whisper- worthy servant of the King — Chicot, 
ed the voices ; u they take you for who would be too glad to be trans- 
Gorenflot.” formed into a Briareus, on the pre- 

u Ha, is that your huge carcass, sent occasion.” 
pandas immobile ? Take that! Is And Chicot, more and more excit- 
that you, indigesta moles ? Take that.” ed, reiterated his blows with such 
And at each apostrophe, with that fury that the sufferer, collecting all 
revenge within his reach he had so 1 his strength, lifted the stone in a par- 
long sought after, he bestowed a oxysm of pain, and with lacerated 
shower of blows upon the fleshy parts sides and bleeding loins, fell back 
that were exposed to view, using the into his friends’ arms, 
same cord with which he had already Chicot’s last blow was in the thin 
scourged Gorenflot. air. 

“ is ot a word,” repeated the voices ; He now looked about him: the 


“ he takes you for the monk.” 


real Gorenflot had swooned away, 


Accordingly, Mayenne smothered from fright, if not from actual pain, 
his pain and anger in groans, exert- 
ing all his strength, the while, to lift 
the stone. 

u Ha, conspirator,” resumed Chi- 
cot — u ha, base monk ! Take that, 
for thy sottishness ; take that, for thy 
laziness ; ke that, for thy lustful- 
ness ; tak Jiat, for thy gluttony. I 
am sorry that there are only seven 
mortal sins. But, take that, take 
that — take that, for all thy vices!” 

“ Monsieur Chicot,” said Gorenflot, It was eleven o’clock at night : in the 
covered with perspiration, “ Monsieur cabinet to which he had retired to 
Chicot, have mercy upon me !” recover from the weakness that had 

“Ha, traitor! 5 ' continued Chicot, overtaken him in the Rue St. Jacques, 
hitting away. “ Take that, for thy the Duke of Anjou was impatiently 


CHAPTER XII. 


WHAT OCCURRED IN THE NEIGHBOR- 
HOOD OF THE BASTILLE, WHILE 
CHICOT WAS PAYING HIS DEBTS AT 
THE ABBEY OF SAINTE-GENEVI EVE. 


treason !” 


expecting the messenger who was to 


“ Oh, mercy !” murmured Goren- inform him, on the part of the Duke 
flot, under the belief that he was re- of Guise, that the King had signed 
ceiving all the blows that fell upon his abdication. 

Mayenne. “ Mercy, good Monsieur From the window to the door of 
Chicot !” • the cabinet, and from the door of the 

But Chicot, determined to glut his cabinet to the windows of the ante- 
revenge, kept striking harder and chamber, he came and went, looking 
harder. j ever and anon at the large clock, the 

In spite of all he could do, May- ; seconds of which ticked with hollow 


enne could not help crying out. 

“ Ha,” continued Chicot, “ why 
does it not please heaven to substitute 
for thy vulgar body, thy plebeian car- 
cass, the high and mighty shoulders 


sound in their gilt-wood frame. 

Of a sudden, he heard the pawing 
of a horse in the court-yard : think- 
ing that the horse might be the rues- 

O O 

senger’s, he ran and leaned out of the 


of the Duke of Mayenne, whom I balcony ; but the horse was held by a 
have owed a beating these seven years groom, and was evidently waiting for 
past, with interest ? Take that, take his master. 

that, take that !” The master issued from the inte 

Gorenflot heaved a deep groan, and rior apartments ; it was Bussy — Bus- 


lay prostrate. 


sy, who in his capacity of captain of 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


454 

the guards, had called, before pro- 
ceeding to keep his appointment, to 
give the countersign of the night. 

When he saw the brave and hand- 
some knight, of whom he never had 
3 ist reason to complain, the duke 
r ‘ally felt a little remorse : but, as 
he stepped forward and approached 
the servant who was holding the torch, 
his face lighted up, and in it the 
duke read so much joy, hope and 
happiness, that all his jealousy re- 
turned. 

Meanwhile, Bussy, ignorant that 
the duke was looking at him and 
watching the different emotions that 
passed across his countenance, Bus- 
sy, after giving the countersign, 
pulled his cloak over his shoulders, 
vaulted into his saddle, and putting 
spurs to his horse, gallopped off, the 
tramp of his steed reverberating un- 
der the hollow archway. 

For an instant, the duke, uneasy at 
seeing no messenger, thought of send- 
ing after him, for he readily conclud- 
ed that, before proceeding to the Bas- 
tille, Bussy would halt at his own ho- 
tel ; but, then, he pictured to him- 
self Bussy and Diana making a jest of 
his scorned love — classing him, the 
prince, with the despised husband — 
and again his bad instincts had the 
upper hand. 

The last thing the prince saw of 
Bussy was a smile of happiness on 
his face ; that smile was, in his pre- 
sent mood, a deadly insult : he al- 
lowed him to proceed on his way. 
Had Bussy looked melancholy, or had 
his brow been clouded, the prince 
might perhaps have detained him. 

Meanwhile, as soon as he was out- 
side of the Hotel d’ Anjou, Bussy 
slackened his rapid pace, as if he 
feared the noise of his horse’s foot- 
steps ; he stopped at his own hotel, 
as the duke had supposed he would, 
and threw his bridle to a groom, who 
was listening respectfully to a lecture 
from Remy on the veterinary art. 

“Ha,” said Bussy, when he re- 
cognized the young leech, “ is that 
you, Remy ?” 

“ Yes, Monseigneur, it is Remy.” 


“ Not in bed yet ?” 

“ I shall be there in ten minutes, 
Monseigneur. I have just returned 
home. Really, since I have lost my 
patient, the day seems to me to be 
forty-eight hours long.” 

“ Can it be that time lies heavily 
on your hands ?” 

“ I am afraid so.” 

“And love?” 

“ Ha ! . I have often told you that 
I was on my guard against it, and 
that, as a general thing, I only used 
it as a subject for useful study.” 

“ Then, Gertrude is forsaken ?” 

“ Entirely.” 

“You grew tired of her ?” 

“ I grew tired of being beaten ; for 
such was the fashion in which the 
Amazon manifested her love ; for the 
rest, she is not a bad sort of a girl.” 

“ Does not your heart plead foi 
her a little this evening ?” 

“ Why this evening, Monseigm ar ?” 
“ Because I should like to cake 
you with me.” 

“To the Bastille ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Are you going there ?” 

“ Certainly ” 

“ And the mfonsoieau ?” 

“ At Compiegne, my dear R*llow, 
preparing a hunt for the King.” 

“ Are you sure, Monseign^ar ?” 

“ The order was given him publicly, 
this morning.” 

“Ha!” 

Remy thought for a moment. 

“ And therefore ?” said he, after a 
moment’s pause. 

“ Therefore,” replied Bussy, “ I 
have passed the day in offering up 
thanks for the happiness I am to en- 
joy to-night, and I am now on my 
way to enjoy it ” 

“ So be it. Jourdain, my sword,” 
said Remy. 

The groom disappeared in the inte- 
rior of the building. 

“ Have you changed your mind 
asked Bussy. 

“ What makes you think so ?” 

“ Your sending for your sword.” 
“Y r es, I shall accompany you a? 
far as the door, for two reasons.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


455 


What are they ?” 

u The first is for fear you should 
meet with some evil disposed persons 
by the way.” 

Bussy smiled. 

44 Eh, mon Dieu ! you may laugh, 
Monseigneur ! I know very well 
that you are fearless, and that Remy 
is no fighting man; but, recollect that 
people are always more ready to at- 
tack one man than two. My second 
reason is, that I have a deal of good 
advice to give you.” 

44 Come along, my dear Remy, 
come along:. We will converse about 

o 

her ; for, next to the pleasure of see- 
ing the woman we love, I know no 
greater pleasure than that of talking 
of her.” 

44 There are even people who would 
rather talk of her than see her.” 

44 But,” said Bussy, 44 the weather 
seems to be very uncertain.” 

44 Another reason why I should ac- 
company you. The heavens are clear 
and cloudy alternately, and I am fond 
of variety. Thank you, Jourdain,” 
added he, addressing the groom who 
brought him his rapier — then, turning 
to the count : 

44 I am at your orders, Monsei- 
gneur — let us start.” 

Bussy took the arm of the young 
doctor, and both bent their way to- 
ward the Bastille. 

Remy had told the count that he 
had a deal of good advice to give him, 
and, in fact, they had scarcely started 
when he began to recite an imposing 
array of Latin quotations, to prove to 
him that he was wrong to visit Diana 
on that particular night, and that it 
would be better for him to betake 
himself quietly to bed, inasmuch as 
the man who has not slept well, never 
fights well. After the apophthems of 
the faculty, came mythology, and he 
told how it was related in ancient 
story that it was known who generally 
removed the armor of Mars. 

Bnssy smiled : Remy maintained 
his point. 

44 Look you here, Remy,” said 
Bussy, 44 when my hand grasps a 
sword it fastens to it so completely 


that the fibres of the flesh seem to ac- 
quire the hardness and elasticity of 
the blade, while the blade, on the 
other hand, seems to acquire the life 
and animation of the living flesh. 
From that moment, my sword becomes 
an arm and my arm a sword ; and 
from that moment, you see, it ceases 
to be a question of strength or of dis- 
position of mind or body. A sword 
never tires.” 

44 No, but it blunts.” 

44 Fear not.” 

44 Ah, my dear lord,’’ continued 
Remy, 44 recollect that to-morrow 
you have to fight a battle like that of 
Hercules against Antaeus, like that of 
Theseus against the Minotaur, like 
that of the Thirty, like that of Bayard, 
something Homeric, gigantic, impos- 
sible — recollect that, in future times, 
Bussy’s fight will have to be remem- 
bered as first in the roll of fame ; and 
in this fight, mind you, I would 
have you come off without a scratch 
on your skin.” 

44 Make your mind easy, my good 
Remy ; you shall see wonders. This 
morning I put swords in the hands 
of four hard-fisted fencers, and dur- 
ing eight hours’ practice, they were 
not able to touch me once, while I 
sent their doublets to tatters. My 
spring was that of the tiger.” 

44 I do not say the contrary, mas- 
ter, but will you have the same vigor 
to-morrow, that you had this morn- 
ing r 77 

Here Bussy and his companion com- 
menced a Latin dialogue, which was 
frequently interrupted by prolonged 
fits of laughter ?” 

In this guise they reached the end 
of the main street of the Faubourg 
Saint-Antoine. 

44 Adieu,” said Bussy. 1 am at 
my journey’s end.” 

44 Suppose I wait for you ?” said 
Remy. 

44 What for?” 

44 To make sure of your having at 
least five or six good hours of sleep 
before your duel.” 

44 If I pledge you my word ?” 

44 Oh, that will suffice ! Bussy’s 


456 


DIAIN \ OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


word ! Zounds, I should like to see 
myself doubting it !” 

u Well, you have it. In two hours 
Remy, I shall be at the hotel.’’ 

44 Enough. Adieu, Monseigneur.” 
44 Adieu, Remy !” 

The two friends separated : but 
Remy remained where Bussy left him. 
He saw the count go up to the house, 
and as Monsoreau’s absence inspired 
him with feelings of security,' enter 
by the door — which was opened by 
Gertrude — instead of getting in by 
the window. 

Having seen so much, he turned on 
his way home to the Hotel de Bussy. 

As he was issuing from the Place 
Beaudoyer, he encountered five men, 
wrapped in cloaks, and evidently 
armed. 

Five men at such an hour was an 
event. He hid himself behind the 
corner of a house. 

When within ten paces of him, the 
five men stopped, and after cordially 
wishing each other good evening, four 
took two different streets, while the 
fifth stood reflecting in the place 
where they left him. 

Just at that moment a cloud pass- 
ed from before the moon, and the 
bright rays of the satellite shone full 
in the face of the night-rover. 

44 Monsieur de Saint-Luc,” cried 
Remy. 

Saint-Luc, when he heard his name 
called, raised his head and saw a man 
approaching him. 

44 Remy !” he responded. 

44 Remy himself ; and I am glad to 
have no need to say, at your service, 
inasmuch as you seem to be in excel- 
lent health. Is there any indiscre- 
tion in asking your Seignory what 
you are doing at this hour, so far 
from the Louvre ?” 

44 Faith, my dear fellow, I am only 
examining the appearance of things 
in the city, by the King’s order. He 
said to me — 4 Saint-Luc, take a walk 
into the city, and if you hear any one 
say that I have abdicated, deny it 
boldly.’ ” 

44 And have you heard any one say 
so ? ’ 


44 No one has breathed a syllable 
on the. subject. And so, as it is 
close upon twelve o’clock, and as the 
only person I met was Monsieur de 
Monsoreau, I dismissed my friends, 
and was on the point of returning 
home, when you saw me.” 

44 What ! Monsieur de Monsoreau ?” 
44 Yes.” 

44 You met Mons. de Monsoreau?” 
44 With a troup of armed men — 
ten or twelve, at least.” 

44 Monsieur de Monsoreau — impos- 
sible !” 

44 Why impossible ?” 

44 Because he must be at Com- 
piegne.” 

44 He ought to be there, but he is 
not.” 

44 But the King’s order ?” 

44 Bah, who obeys the King’s order.” 
44 You met Monsieur de Monso- 
reau with ten or twelve armed men ?” 
44 Positively.” 

44 Did he recognize you ?” 

44 1 believe so.” 

44 You were only five ?” 

44 My four friends and myself, no 
more.” 

44 And did he not fall on you ?” 

44 On the contrary, he avoided me, 
which astonishes me. When 1 per- 
ceived him, I expected to have a ter- 
rible fight.” 

44 In what direction was he going ?” 
44 In the direction of the Rue de la 
Tixeranderie.” 

44 Ah, gracious God !” 

44 What?” asked Saint-Luc, fright- 
ened at the leech’s manner. 

44 Monsieur de Saint-Luc, some- 
thing dreadful is going to happen ; 1 
am sure of it.” 

44 What is going to happen and to 
whom ?” 

44 To Monsieur de Bussy.” 

44 To Bussy, mordieu! Speak, Re- 
my ; you know me to be one of his 
friends.” 

44 What a sad misfortune ! Mon- 
sieur de Bussy believed him to be at 
Compiegne.” 

44 Well?” 

44 Well ! He thought he might avail 
himself of his absence” — 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


457 


<c And so he is now ?” — 
u With Madame Diana.'’ 
u Ah,” said Saint-Luc, “ there is 
danger.’’ 

“Yes,” said Remy, “ it is plain 
that he must have suspected some- 
thing, or that some one must have 
made him suspect — his departure was 
a mere pretence, for here he is.” 
“Wait, wait!” cried Saint-Luc, 
striking his forehead. 

“ Something strikes you ?” asked 
Remy. 

“ The Duke of Anjou’s hand is in 
this!” 

“ Why it was the Duke of Anjou 
who, this morning, suggested the or- 
der for sending him away.” 

“ The more reason. Have you 
good lungs, Remy ?” 

“ Like the bellows of a smithy.” 

“ Then, let us run without losing 
an instant : you know the house ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Forward, then.” 

And the two gentlemen ran a race 
through the streets that would have 
done honor to a pair of fugitive stags. 

u Has he much the start of us r” 
asked Remy, as he ran. 

“ Who — Monsoreau ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ About a quarter of an hour,” re- 
plied Saint-Luc, clearing a heap of 
stones five feet high. 

u Only let us get there in time,” 
said Remy, drawing his sword, so as 
to be prepared for any event. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE MURDER. 

Bussy, himself feeling perfectly safe, 
had been fearlessly received by Diana, 
who believed that she could rely upon 
her husband’s absence. 

Never before had the lovely Diana 
been so gay and joyous ; never before 
had Bussy been so happy : on cer- 
tain occasions, of the importance of 


which the soul is warned by the con- 
servative instincts of the body, man 
concentrates all his moral faculties, 
all his physical resources. He multi- 
plies himself, as it were, to snatch the 
passing hour, which inexorable fate 
is standing by ready to cut short. 

Diana, agitated, and all the more 
agitated inasmuch as she exerted her- 
self to conceal her agitation — agitat- 
ed by fears for the coming morrow — 
Diana appeared more tender than 
usual ; for sadness is inherent to true 
love, and gives it the poetical color- 
ing which otherwise it would want. 
True passion is never playful, and the 
eye of a woman sincerely in love is 
oftener dimmed by tears than lighted 
up with joy. 

Accordingly, she began by restrain- 
ing the ardor of her impetuous lover. 
It was an occasion for telling him that 
his life was her life, and especially for 
discussing with him the means of 
flight. For it would not suffice to 
come off victorious ; it would, also, 
be necessary to escape the King’s an- 
ger : for it was probable that Henry 
would never forgive the death or de- 
feat of his favorites. 

“ And, beside,” said Diana, en- 
circling Bussy ’s neck with her arms 
and gazing on her lover with her 
beauteous eyes, “ are you not, as it 
is, the bravest knight of all France? 
Why should you make it a point of 
honor to add to your glory ? You are 
already so superior to other men, that 
it will be ungenerous to seek to aug- 
ment the difference between you and 
them. You seek not the smiles of 
other women, for you love me and 


would not offend me — is it not so, 
Louis ? But, Louis, I would have you 
regard my wishes in all things. De- 
fend your life. I do not say, beware 
of death, for it seems to me that 
there exists not in the whole world a 
man great enough, strong enough, and 
powerful enough to kill my Bussy, ex- 
cept by treachery. But, think of 
wounds: you can be wounded, you 
know, for it was to a wound received 
in fighting these same men that I owe 
your acquaintance.’ 


458 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u Be not alarmed,” said Bussy, 
laughing, u I shall take care of my 
face ; I do not want to be disfigured.” 
u Oh, take*care of your whole per- 
son ! Hold it sacred, Bussy, as 
though it were my person. Think of 
the agony you would feel, if you saw 
me brought back wounded and bleed- 
ing. Well, what you would feel, I 
shall feel, if aught happens to you. 
Be prudent, my brave lion, it is all I 
advise. Do like that Roman whose 
history you were reading to me the 
other day, to re-assure me. Oh, fol- 
low his example. Let your three 
friends fight, and be ready to assist. 
But, if two men or three men should 
attack you at once, fly ; you can, like 
Horatius, turn back and kill them 
separately, one after the other.” 
u Yes, my dear Diana,” said Bus- 

sy- 

u Oh, you answer me without hear- 
ing me ; you are looking at me and 
not listening to me !” 

u Yes, I am looking at thee, lovely 
Diana !” 

u Think not of my beauty at such a 
moment as this. Mon Dieu ! Think 
of your life, of our lives ! Listen ; 
what I am going to tell you is very 
fearful ; but I want you to know it ; 
it will not make you stronger, but 
more prudent. I will have the 
courage to witness this duel.” 

“ You ?” 

I shall be present.” 
u In what way ? Impossible, 
Diana ?” 

u No, hearken. In the room next 
to this, there is, you know, a window 
opening on the yard, and looking 
sideways into the Enclos des Tour- 
nelles.” 

u Yes, I recollect ; a window about 
twenty feet from the ground, and 
underneath which there is an iron- 
railing. I amused myself the other 
day in feeding some birds from it.” 
u You now understand, Bussy, how 
I can be a spectator of the fight. 
Mind and place yourself so that I can 
see you. You will know that I am 
there, and you may even see me 
yourself. But no, what am I saying ? 


Look not, for your enemy may take 
you off your guard.” 

u And kill me, you would say, with 
my eyes fixed upon you? Were I a 
condemned man, and had I the choice 
of death, Diana, such should be my 
death.” 

u Yes, but you are not a con- 
demned man. The question is not how 
you would die, but how you would, 
live.” 

u And live I will — make your 
mind easy about that. Believe me 
that I am well supported ; you do 
not know my friends, but I do. An- 
traguet is as good a swordsman as I am 
myself. Riberac is cool on the 
ground ; his eyes and arm are the 
only things about him that seem to 
have life, and with the one he looks 
as if he would eat his adversary up, 
while with the other he . smites like 
the destroying angel. Livarot, again, 
is as nimble as the leopard. The 
game is safe, believe me, Diana, too 
safe. I should be glad there were 
more danger, that I might reap more 
honor.” 

u Well, I believe you, dear Bussy, 
and I smile because I hope for the 
best ; but listen to me, and promise 
to obey me.” 

u Yes, provided you do not order 
me to leave you.” 

u I appeal to your own good 
sense.” 

u You have deprived me of it.” 

No conceits, sir, I want obe- 
dience. Obedience is the test of 
love.” 

u Then command.” 
u Dear Bussy, your eyes are fa- 
tigued ; you want rest ; leave me.” 
u Oh, already !” 

u I want to pray, and you are in my 
way.” 

u I would pray to you as to an 
angel.” 

u Angels themselves pray to God,’ 
said Diana, kneeling down. 

And from the bottom of her heart, 
and with looks that seemed to pierce 
upward to the divinity, she said : 
u If thou wouldst, oh heaven, that 
thy servant live happy on earth rather 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AU. 


459 


than that she perish, protect him | 
thou hast cast in her path, that she 
may love him and him alone.” 

These words were falling from his 
lips — Bussy was in the act of stoop- 
ing to encircle her with his arms, 
when suddenly a window fell in, 
smashed to pieces ; the window itself 
next gave way, and three armed men 
appeared on the balcony, while a 
fourth was seen clambering over the 
balustrade. 

The face of the latter was conceal- 
ed by a mask ; in his left hand he 
held a pistol and in his right a drawn 
gword. 

For a moment, Bussy stood still ; 
Diana screamed with terror, as she 
cast herself about his neck. 

The man in the mask motioned, 
and his three companions stepped for- 
ward ; one of the three was armed 
with an arquebus. 

Bussy, putting Diana aside with his 
left hand, drew his sword with his 
right. 

Then, making a short turn, he low- 
ered it slowly without taking his eye 
off his adversaries. 

u At him, at him, my brave fel- 
lows !” said a sepulchral voice issu- 
ing from beneath the mask. u He is 
already half dead ; fear has killed him.’’ 
“ You are mistaken,” said Bussy : 
“fear is unknown to me.” 

* Diana moved as though she would 
again draw near him. 

u Keep back, Diana,” said he firm- 

[ y- 

But, Diana, instead of obeying, 
threw herself a second time on his 
neck. 

“ You will be the cause of my 
death, Madame,” said he. 

Diana drew back, leaving Bussy 
entirely unmasked. She saw that she 
could only assist him in one way, and 
that was by implicit obedience. 

a Ha, ha,” said the sepulchral 
voice. “ And so it is Monsieur de 
Bussy. Fool that I am, I would not 
believe it ! Truly, what a friend — 
what a good and excellent friend !” 
Bussy bit his lips and made no re- 
ply ; but he looked round to see what 


means of defence he could dispose of, 
when the fight commenced. 

“ He is told,” continued the voice 
jeeringly, u he is told that the 
Grand-Huntsman is absent — that his 
wife is solitary and alone, afraid of 
ghosts perhaps — and so, he comes to 
keep her company, and under what 
circumstances ! When he himself is 
on the eve of fighting a duel ! I say 
again, what a good and excellent 
friend the Lord de Bussy is !” 

u Ha, is that you, Monsieur de 
Monsoreau !” said Bussy. “ You 
may pull off your mask. I now know 
with whom I have to deal.” 

u It is done,” said the Grand- 
Huntsman, tearing off the wolf mask 
of black velvet. 

A feeble cry escaped from Diana 
The count was as pale as a corpse, 
and he smiled like a demon. 

“ Come, let us have done with this, 
sir,” said Bussy. “ l have no fancy 
for wordy warfare : it was all very 
well for Homer’s heroes who were 
demi-gods, to talk before fighting ; 
I am only a man, but a man who 
knows not what fear is. Attack me, 
or let me pass.’’ 

Monsoreau’s reply was a shrill 
and hollow laugh, which made Diana 
shudder, but which made Bussy boil 
over with anger. 

“ Make way, sir,” resumed Bussy, 
feeling the blood, that had for a mo- 
ment ebbed back to his heart, now 
rush impetuously to his forehead. 

u Ho, ho,” said Monsoreau, “make 
way ! you do not say so, Monsieur 
de Bussy ?” 

u Then fall to, and let us end 
this,” said Bussy. “ I want to re- 
turn home and have far to go.” 
u You came here to pass the night, 
sir,” said the Grand-Huntsman, “and 
here you shall pass it.” 

Meanwhile, the heads of two other 
men made their appearance through 
the rails of the balcony, and these 
two men, clambering over the balus- 
trade, stationed themselves beside 
their companions. 

“ Four and two make six,” said 
Bussy. “ Where are the others 


460 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


u They are waiting at the door,” 
said the Grand-Huntsman. 

Diana fell upon her knees, and de- 
spite all her efforts to keep them 
down, Bussy heard her sobs. 

He glanced rapidly at her, and then 
looking Monsoreau steadily in the 
face : 

u My dear sir,” said he, after a 
moment’s reflection, a you know that 
I am a man of honor.” 

u Yes,” said Monsoreau, u I know 
that you are a man of honor, as I 
know that Madame is a chaste wo- 
man.” 

u Very good, sir,” said Bussy, 
slightly nodding, u Your reply is 
sharp but merited. It is so much to 
add to the account we are going to 
settle. Only, as I am one of a match 
to come off to-morrow against four 
gentlemen of your acquaintance, and 
who have consequently a prior claim 
on my attendance, I request permis- 
sion to retire for to-night, and give 
u my promise to meet you where 
1 when you please.” 
lonsoreau shrugged his shoulders. 
Hearken,” said Bussy. u I 
r before you, sir, that when I 
have satisfied Messieurs de 
mberg, D’Epernon, Quelus and 
riron, I shall be your man, en- 
r your man. Should they kill 
/■ou will be paid by their hands, 
there the matter will end. If, 
he contrary, I kill them, I shall 
.n funds to make payment my- 

• • 

Monsoreau turned to his men. 
u Come,” said he ; u now for it, 
my brave fellows !” 

u Ha,” said Bussy, u I have been 
laboring under a mistake ! This is 
intended for murder, not for a duel !” 
u Parbleu /” said Monsoreau. 
u Yes, I see that we have both been 
mistaken ; but, beware ! The Duke 
of Anjou will not like this.” 

u It is he who sends,” said Monso- 
reau. 

u Then,” said the knight, u I shall 
rely upon my own good arm. Look 
to yourselves.” 

With these words, 1 e threw down 


the prie-dieu, dragged over the table 
and placed on the top of all a chair, 
thus forming, in a second, a rampart 
between himself and his enemies. 

His movements were so rapid, that 
the ball discharged from the arquebus 
only struck the prie-dieu, lodging it- 
self in the thickest part. Meanwhile 
Bussy had upset a splendid buffet of 
the age of Francis I. and added it to 
his entrenchment. 

Diana found herself protected by 
this last piece of furniture ; she saw 
that she could only assist Bussy by 
her prayers, and so she prayed. 

Bussy looked toward her ; he i|ext 
surveyed his rampart, and then his 
assailants. 

u Come on,” said he, u but look 
out ; my sword is sharp.” 

The bravos, urged on by Monso- 
reau, advanced toward the wild boar, 
who awaited their onset with an air 
of firm intrepidity: one of them ven- 
tured to put out his hand with the in- 
tention of pulling aside the prie-dieu, 
but before he could even touch it, 
Bussy’s sword caught him in the arm, 
through a loop-hole, and pierced him 
from the inner bend of the elbow unto 
the shoulder. 

The man, howling with pain, drew 
back to the window. 

Bussy now heard rapid footsteps in 
the corridor, and concluded that he 
would be placed between two fires. 
He rushed to the door to push the 
bolt, but before he could reach it, it 
opened. 

Two men burst into the room. 
u Ah, dear master,” cried a well 
known voice, u we are in time !” 
u Remy !” said the count. 
u And I !” cried a second voice. 
u It seems that there is murder going 
on here.” 

Bussy, on hearing this voice, shout- 
ed with joy. 

u Saint-Luc !” said he 
u Here I am.” 

u So, ho !” said Bussy. u I think, 
now, my dear Monsieur de Monso- 
reau, that you will do well to let us 
have free passage, for if not, we will 
now pass over your body.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


461 


a Throe men this way !” cried 
Monsoreau. 

And three new assailants bestrode 
the balustrade. 

u Why, they have an army !” cried 
Saint-Luc. 

u God of heaven — good Lord pro- 
tect him !” prayed Diana. 

Bussy was on the alert. With the 
agility of the tiger, he sprang over the 
entrenchment ; crossing swords with 
Monsieur de Monsoreau, he first 
broke, and then touched him in the 
throat : but, the distance was too 
great, and the wound was a mere 
scratch. 

Five or six men now rushed at once 
on Bussy. 

One of them fell by Saint-Luc’s 
sword. 

u Forward!” cried Remy. 
u No, not forward!” cried Bussy. 
u On the contrary, retreat, Remy, and 
carry away Diana.” 

Monsoreau yelled, and snatched a 
pistol from one of the new-comers. 
Remy hesitated. 

u Carry her off, carry her off!” 
cried Bussy. “ I confide her to you.” 
u God,” murmured Diana, u oh, 
God, protect him !” 

u Come, Madame ? ” said Remy. 
a No, never — never will I forsake 
him !” 

Remy lifted her in his arms. 
u Bussy,” cried Diana, u here, Bus- 
sy — help !” 

The wretched woman’s reason was 
gone ; she no longer distinguished 
friends from enemies, and whatever 
separated her from Bussy was in her 
eyes hostile. 

u Go, go,” said Bussy, u I will 
soon join you.” 

u Yes,” roared Monsoreau, “ you 
will soon join her, I hope.” 

A shot was fired. 

Bussy saw Le Haudouin stagger, 
give way and finally sink on the floor, 
dragging Diana with him. 

Bussy shrieked and turned round. 
u It is nothing, master,” said Re- 
my : u it was I who received the ball ; 
she is safe.” 

Three men rushed on Bussy ; as he 


was in the act of turning to face them, 
Saint-Luc passed between him and 
them, and one of the men fell. 

The two others drew back. 
u Saint-Luc,” said Bussy, u Saint- 
Luc, in the name of her you love, 
save Diana.” 

u But yourself?” 
u I am a man.” 

Saint-Luc rushed toward Diana, 
who had already raised herself on her 
knees, and taking her up in his arms, 
disappeared with her through the 
door. 

u Ho, there !” cried Monsoreau. 
u Ho, there, men on the stairs!” 
u Scoundrel !” cried Bussy. u Cow- 
ard !” 

Monsoreau retired behind his men. 
Bussy gave a back stroke, and then 
made a thrust : by the first he split 
open a scull : the second encountered 
a breast. 

u That will clear the way a little,” 
said he, returning to his entrench- 
ment. 

u Fly, master, fly !” murmured Re- 
my. 

u I fly — fly before assassins !” 

Then stooping down to the leech, 
he added : 

u Diana must be carried off — out 
of the house. But, you — where are 
you hit?” 

u Look out — look out !” cried Re- 
my. 

Four men had just burst into the 
room, through the door opening on 
the stair-case. Bussy was now be- 
tween two gangs. 

Still he had but one thought. 
u Diana !” cried he. u Diana !” 
Without losing a second, he was 
facing the new-comers : taken by sur- 
prise, two fell, one wounded and the 
other dead. 

Monsoreau advanced: Bussy re- 

treated behind his rampart. 

u Push the bolts,” cried Monsoreau, 
u turn the key — we have him.”, ' 
Pending these incidents, Remy had 
dragged himself before Bussy, thus 
adding his body to the heap forming 
the entrenchment. 

There was a moment's pause. 


462 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


Bussy, tottering on his legs, his 
ody resting against the wall, his arm 
relaxed, and his sword on guard, took 
a rapid glance at the state of affairs. 

Seven men were laid low ; nine 
were yet facing him. 

Bussy counted them. 

And when he saw those nine flash- 
ing blades — when he heard Monso- 
reau encouraging his men — when he 
felt his feet plashing in blood — his 
valiant heart, that had never known 
fear, saw the form of death standing 
before him, and mournfully beckon- 
ing to him. 

u Out of nine,” said he, “ I can 
manage to kill five, but the remaining 
four will kill me. I have still strength 
left for a ten minutes’ fight. Well, I 
shall perform in those ten minutes 
what man never did before and will 
never do hereafter!” 

Then, unclasping his cloak, and 
wrapping it round his arm to serve as 
a shield, he sprang into the middle 
of the room, as if it were unworthy of 
*ilis name to fight any longer under 
cover. 

There, he found a confused mass, 
that might be likened to a brood of 
hissing vipers ; three times he saw 
day, and three times was his arm ex- 
tended ; three times he heard bald- 
ricks and leathern doublets creak, and 
three times he felt a stream of warm 
blood that ran down the groove of his 
sword, drop on his hand. 

At the same time, he had parried 
twenty eut-and-chrust blows with his 
left arm. The cloak was in tatters. 

The tactics of the assailants chans:- 
ed when they saw two more of their 
men fall and a third retreat. Relin- 
quishing the use of the sword, some 
attacked him with the butt-ends of 
their muskets, whilst others discharg- 
ed at him their pistols. They had 
not had recourse to the latter before, 
and now Bussy contrived to avoid the 
balls either by turning aside or sud- 
denly stooping. In this hour of mor- 
tal strife, he was a hundred times 
himself, for not only did he see, hear 
and act, but he likewise divined every 
movement of his enemies before it was 


made. In fine, it was one of those 
moments in which man attains the 
highest pitch of perfection ; and Bus- 
sy ’s performances were only less than 
those of a god, because he was a mor- 
tal ; they certainly were superhuman. 

He bethought himself that could 
he kill Monsoreau the fight would be 
ended ; he sought him out among the 
murderers ; but Monsoreau, as cool 
as Bussy was animated, was loading 
his men’s pistols, or else firing them 
from behind them. 

But it was no difficult matter for 
Bussy to clear a passage : he dashed 
forward, and found himself fronting 
Monsoreau. 

At that moment, the latter was 
holding a loaded pistol ; he aimed and 
fired. 

The ball hit Bussy’s sword-blade, 
and broke it six inches from the han- 
dle. 

u Disarmed!” cried Monsoreau, 
u disarmed !” 

Bussy retreated ; and, as he retreat- 
ed, picked up the broken blade. 

It took him but a second to fasten 
it to its handle with his handkerchief. 

And the fight re-commenced, pre- 
senting the prodigious spectacle of a 
man, almost without arms but also 
without wounds, striking terror into 
six well armed men, and forming a 
rampart with the bodies of ten others 
that had fallen by his sword ! 

The fight, thus recommenced, be- 
came more terrible than ever. While 
his men were pressing on Bussy, Mon- 
soreau, seeing the knight make seve- 
ral attempts to pick up a weapon from 
the floor, drew over to him all the 
swords that were within his reach. 

Bussy was surrounded : the stump 
of sword that he held, notched, bent, 
and blunted, was no longer guided 
with a sure hand : fatigue was begin- 
ning to benumb his arm. He was 
casting round him hopeless looks, 
when one of the prostrate bodies, 
with a strong effort, rose on its knees, 
and handed him a long rapier. 

It was Remy, whose last act was 
thus an act of devotion to his beloved 
master. 


THE LaDY OF MONSOREAU. 


463 


Bussy shouted with joy, and jump- 
ed back to untie his handkerchief and 
rid himself of the stump, for which 
he had no longer occasion. 

Meanwhile, Monsoreau went over 
to Remy, and when close up to him, 
discharged his pistol at his head. 

The ball shattered the leech’s scull, 
and this time he fell back never to 
rise again. 

Bussy uttered a cry or rather a roar. 
His strength returned with the means 
of defence. Swinging his sword 
round in a circle, on the right he 
cleaved an arm, and on the left cut 
open a cheek. This double movement 
cleared the way to the door. 

Active and sinewy, he rushed at it 
with an impetus that shook the wall. 
But the bolts held firm. 

Exhausted by the effort, Bussy let 
his right arm fall, while with his left 
hand behind his back, he endeavored 
to pull back the bolts, facing his foes 
all the while. 

It was only for a second that, he 
fctood thus, and during that second, 
he received a ball in the leg and two 
sword-wounds, one in each side. 

But he had pulled back the bolts 
and unlocked the door. 

His fury was now sublime. With 
a shout he floored the most forward 
of the brigands, and coming up with 
Monsoreau, wounded him in the chest 

Monsoreau vociferated a curse. 

u Ha,” said Bussy, pulling at the 
door, u I begin to hope that I may 
escape.” 

The four remaining men closed in 
with Bussy ; finding that his wonder- 
ful skill rendered him invulnerable to 
iron, they resolved to try and stran- 
gle him. 

But Bussy, hacking and thrusting 
in every direction, was still able to 
defend himself. Monsoreau approach- 
ed him twice, and twice was wounded. 

Three men seized his sword by the 
handle, and tore it from him. 

Bussy snatched up a stool, and in 
three blows felled two of his foes ; 
the stool broke on the shoulder of the 
third. 


This third man stabbed him with 
his dagger in the throat. 

Bussy caught him by the hand, and 
seizing the dagger, compelled him, as 
it were, to stab himself. 

The fourth man jumped out of the 
window. 

Bussy uttered a cry, looked around 
for a sword, and seizing the first one 
that came to his hand, struck with 
such vigor at the Grand-Huntsman, 
that he nailed him to the floor, pier- 
ced through and through the body. 

u Ha !” said Bussy, u . I know not 
if I am to die, but, at least, I shall 
have seen thee die.” 

Monsoreau made an effort to reply, 
but it was his last breath which pass- 
ed his half open lips. 

Bussy dragged himself toward the 
corridor : he was fast losing blood 
from his open wounds. 

He cast a last look behind him. 

A cloud was fast passing from before 
the face of the moon : her light shone 
on that room streaming with blood , 
her rays were reflected on walls cut 
and hacked by the swords of the com- 
batants, and indented by numerous 
balls ; there lay the dead with their 
livid countenances, and presenting 
even in death the ferocious and venal 
looks of hired murderers. 

Bussy, as he gazed at this battle- 
field, all wounded and dying as he 
was, felt an emotion of lofty pride. 

As he had promised himself, he had 
done what no other living man could 
have done. 

It now only remained for him to 
fly — to escape : he could fly, for his 
flight would be from the dead. 

But all was not over with the un- 
fortunate knight. 

O 

When he reached the staircase, he 
saw arms glistening in the court-yard : 
a gun was fired, and the ball hit him 
in the shoulder. 

The yard was guarded. 

He then bethought himself of the 
small window, through which Diana 
had told him she would be a spectator 
of his duel. He dragged himself over 
to it as rapidly as he could. 


30 


464 


Dr AN A OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Ho looked out, and gazed for a 
moment at the heavens besprinkled 
with stars. 

Closing and bolting the door behind 
him, Bussy, with great difficulty, con- 
trived to climb upon the window-sill 
and measure the position of the iron 
railing, which it would be necessary for 
him to clear in case he were to jump. 

44 Oh ! I shall never be able to do 
it,” he murmured. 

But, at the same moment, he heard 
footsteps on the stairs ; the second 
troop was coming up. 

Bussy was defenceless : he collected 
all his remaining strength, and im- 
pelling himself with one hand and 
the only foot he could use, he sprang 
forward. 

In the act of jumping, the sole of 
his foot slipped on the stone. 

His feet were dripping with blood ! 

He fell on the spikes : some enter- 
ed his body, others caught his clothes, 
and he remained suspended. 

He thought of the only friend he 
had in the world. 

44 Saint-Luc !” he cried. 44 Help, 
Saint-Luc — help !” 

44 Ha, is that you, Monsieur de 
Bussy ?” answered promptly a voice 
that issued from a cluster of trees. 

Bussy trembled. It was not Saint- 
Luc’s voice. 

44 Saint-Luc !” he again cried. 
44 Help ! Fear nothing for Diana ! I 
have killed the Monsoreau !” 

He was in hope that Saint-Luc 
was concealed in the neighborhood, 
and that he would show himself on 
hearing this news. 

44 Ha, the Monsoreau is killed !” 

cried another voice. 

a 5? 

44 Good.” 

And Bussy saw two men emerge 
from behind the trees ; both wore 
masks. 

44 Gentlemen,” said Bussy, 44 in 
the name of God, help an unfortunate 
gentleman who may yet escape, if 
you will but lend him aid.” 

4 4 What say you, my lord ?” asked 
one of the men, in an under tone. 


44 Imprudent man !” exclaimed the 
other. 

44 My lord,” cried Bussy, whose 
sense of hearing was sharpened by 
his desperate situation, 44 my lord, 
deliver me, and I will pardon your 
treachery.” 

44 Do you hear ?” asked one of the 
men. 

44 What are your orders ?” 

44 To deliver him” — 

And then he added, smiling be 
hind his mask : 

44 From his sufferings — ” 

Bussy turned his head in the direc- 
tion from which the voice proceeded. 
Horrible perversity, that prompted a 
bantering tone at such a moment ! 

44 1 am lost !” he murmured. 

Lost he was, for at that instant, 
the barrel of an arquebus was placed 
against his breast, and the piece fired. 

Bussy’s head fell on his shoulder ; 
his hands stretched out convulsively. 

44 Murderer,” said he, 44 be ac- 
cursed !” 

And he expired, with the name of 
Diana on his lips. 

His blood dripped from the railing 
on him who had been styled my lord. 

44 Is he dead ?” shouted several 
men from the window, out of which 
he had jumped. 

44 Yes,” cried Aurilly, 44 but, fly — 
recollect that my lord the Duke of 
Anjou was the friend and protector 
of Monsieur de Bussy.” 

The men asked no second question, 
and vanished. The duke listened to 
their footfalls, until they were lost in 
the distance 

44 Now, Aurilly,” said the other 
man in the mask, 44 go up into the 
room, and throw me Monsoreau’s 
body out of the window.” 

Aurilly obeyed, and soon recogniz- 
ing Monsoreau from amonoj the hear) 
of dead, hoisted it on his shoulders ; 
then, as his companion had ordered, 
he cast it out by the window. As it 
fell, the dress of the Duke of Anjou 
was again blood-bespattered. 

Francis felt under the Grand- 
Huntsman’s doublet, and pulled out 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


465 


/ 


the treaty of alliance he had signed 
with his royal hand. 

“ What I was looking for,” said 
he, u we have nothing more to do 
here.” 

u And Diana?” asked Aurilly from 
the window. 

u Faith, I care for her no longer, 
and as she has not recognized us, 
loosen her bonds ; untie Saint-Luc, 
likewise, and let them go where they 
please.” 

Aurilly vanished. 

u I shall not be King of France, 
this time,” said the duke, tearing up 
the paper, u but neither shall I lose 
my head as a traitor.’’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HOW FRIAR GORENFLOT FOUND HIM- 
SELF MORE THAN EVER PLACED BE- 
TWEEN PREFERMENT TO THE GIB- 
BET, AND PREFERMENT IN THE 
CHURCH. 

The conspiracy was from beginning 
to end, and on all sides, a dead fail- 
ure. Neither the Suisses stationed 
at one issue, nor the French guard 
stationed at another, were successful 
in capturing even the small fry. 

The whole paity had made its es- 
cape by the subterraneous passage. 

Seeing no one come forth from the 
abbey, the doors were forced, and 
Crillon, acting under the orders of 
the King, made an irruption into the 
sanctuary of Sainte-Genevieve. 

A dead silence prevailed throughout 
the gloomy building. Crillon, like 
an experienced soldier, would have 
preferred to encounter signs of life. 

But in vain did he scatter his men 
— in vain were doors and windows 
opened — in vain was the crypt 
searched — nothing could be found. 

The King marched at the head, 
shouting : 

u Chicot, Chicot f ” 
u Can have killed him ?” said 


the King. u Mordieu ! if they have, 
they shall pay a gentleman’s price 
for my fool !” 

u You are right, Sire,” replied 
Crillon, u for he has proved himself to 
be one of the bravest.” 

Chicot could not answer for ho 
was busy whipping Monsieur de 
Mayenne, and he took so much pleas- 
ure in his occupation, that he neither 
saw nor heard what was passing near 
him. 

As soon as Gorenflot had swooned 
away, the duke had disappeai*ed, and 
as Chicot’s attention was no longer 
engaged, he recognized the royal 
voice. 

u This way, my son, this way !’ 
cried he, as loud as he could, trying 
at the same time to lift up Gorenflot, 
and put him, at least, in a decent 
posture. 

His exertions in this charitable 
performance deprived his voice of 
its usual steady and clear tones ; so 
that it sounded to Henry’s ear like a 
voice of complaint. 

There was, however, nothing of the 
kind ; on the contrary, Chicot was in 
all the excitement of triumph ; only, 
seeing the piteous condition of the 
monk, he was deliberating whether 
he should tap the huge barrel, or show 
him mercy. 

He looked at Gorenflot, as for an 
instant Augustus must have looked 
at Cinna. 

Gorenflot was slowly recovering, 
and stupid as he was, he was not suf- 
ficiently so to deceive himself as to 
what he might expect ; beside, he 
naturally resembled those animals 
that are incessantly in danger from 
man, and which feel instinctively, 
that hands are never stretched out to 
them, except to beat them, and that 
mouths never breathe on them, except 
to eat them. 

He was, therefore, perfectly con- 
scious of his position when he reopened 
his eyes. 

u Good Seigneur Chicot !” he 
cried. 

u Ha, ha !” said the Gascon, c thou 
art not dead, then !” 


4CG 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


u Good Seigneur Chicot,” said the 
monk, trying to join his hands in 
front of his enormous belly, u is it 
possible that you can think of deliv- 
ering me into the hands of my per- 
secutors — me, your Gorenflot ?” 
u Rascal !” said Chicot, in a tone 
of ill-disguised sympathy. 

Gorenflot began to howl, and hav- 
ing succeeded in making his hands 
meet, he now tried to wring them. 

a I, who have had such good din- 
ners with you,” cried he, choking — 
u I, who used, in your own opinion, 
to take to the bottle so kindly, that 
you used to call me the King of 
sponges — I, who used to feast so 
heartily on the pullets you used to 
order at the Corne d’Abondance, that 
I never left even a bone behind me !” 
This last reminiscence struck Chi- 
cot as being the height of sublimity, 
and decided him to incline to clem- 
ency. * 

u Here they come, just Heaven !” 
cried Gorenflot, trying to get on his 
feet, but without success. u Here 
they come — here they are ! I am 
dead ! Oh, good Seigneur Chicot, 
help me !” 

And the monk, unable to rise, cast 
himself — which was easier — prostrate 
on the ground. 

u Rise,” said Chicot. 
u Do you pardon me ?” 

,u We shall see.” 

“ You have taken enough out of 
me in beating.” 

Chicot burst into a laugh. The 
poor monk’s mind was so confused, 
that he believed he had received all 
tfite blows with which Chicot had li- 
quidated his account with Moasieur 
de Mayenne. 

u You are laughing, Monsieur Chi- 
cot !” said he. 

u How can I help it, you animal ?” 
u Then you will let me live r” 
u Perhaps.” 

u You surely would not laugh, if 
your Gorenflot was going to die r” 
u It does not depend upon me,” 
said Chicot, u it depends upon the 
•King ; the King alone has the power 
of life and death ” 


Gorenflot made an effort, and suc- 
ceeded in getting on his knees. 

But now the darkness became sud- 
denly lit up by brilliant lights ; nu- 
merous embroidered dresses and 
gleaming swords surrounded the two 
friends. 

u Oh, Chicot, my dear Chicot, how 
glad I am to see thee again !” cried 
the King. 

u You hear, good Monsieur Chi- 
cot,” whispered Gorenflot — u that 
great Prince is saying that he is glad 
to see you.” 

“ Well?” 

u Well, since he is so good, he will 
not refuse you anything you ask of 
him. Ask him for my pardon.” 

“ What, ask that villain Herod ?” 
u Oh, oh, silence, dear Monsieur 
Chicot !” 

“ Well, Sire,” asked Chicot, 
turning to the King, “ how many 
have you captured ?” 

u Confiteor ,” said Gorenflot. 
u Not one,” replied Crillon, u the 
traitors ! They must have discovesed 
some issue to us unknown.” 
u Probably,” said Chicot. 
u But have you seen them ?’’ asked 
the King. 

u Certainly, I have seen them.” 

“ All ?” 

u From the first to the last.” 

“ Confiteor ,” repeated Gorenflot, 
unable to get out another word. 

u You recognized them, of course ?” 
“ No, Sire.” 

“ What, you did not recognize 
them !” 

a That is to say, I only recognized 
one of them, and even then” — 
u And even then ?” 
u It was not by his face.” 
u Which of them do vou mean ?” 

u Monsieur de Mavenne.” 

«✓ 

u Monsieur de Mayenne — him to 
whom you owed” — 

a We are even, now, Sire.” 
u Oh, tell me all about it, Chicot.” 

u Some other time, mv son. some 

* 

other time, we have other matters in 
hand.” 

u Confiteor repeated Gorenflot. 
u Ha, you have made one pri 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


soner !” suddenly cried Crillon, let- 
ting his large hand fall on Gorenflot, 
who, despite his prodigious weight and 
size, staggered under the blow. 

The monk was struck speechless. 
Chicot delayed his answer, permit- 
ting for a moment all the anguish that 
can proceed from fear, to occupy the 
monk’s heart. 

Gorenflot, surrounded thus by drawn 
swords and angry passions, was on 
the point of fainting a second time. 

At length, after a moment’s si- 
lence, during which Gorenflot thought 
that the trumpet of the day of judg- 
ment had sounded in his ears, Chi- 
cot spoke : 

“ Sire,” said he, u look well at this 
monk.” 

One of the attendants approached 
Tith a torch close to Gorenflot’s face ; 
the latter closed his eyes that he 
might have less trouble in passing 
from this world to the next. 

u The preacher, Gorenflot !” cried 
Henry. 

“ Confiteor! Confiteor ! Confiteor /” 
repeated the monk eagerly. 

u The very same,” said Chicot. 
u The same who” — 
u Exactly,” interrupted Chicot. 
The perspiration oozing from Go- 
renflot’s cheeks, could have been 
gathered in a spoon. 

And there was good reason for it, 
for he heard the clanging of swords, 
as though they were endowed with 
life, and impatient to be at work. 

Some were shaken at him in a 
threatening manner. 

Gorenflot, rather feeling than see- 
in^ them, uttered a feeble cry. 

u Wait,” said Chicot, u the King 
must know all.” 

A nd taking Henry aside, he said : 
u Thank heaven, my son, for hav- 
ing permitted that holy man to come 
into this world some thirty-five years 
since — for it is he who has saved us 
all ” 

u How saved us ?” 
u Yes ; it was he who told me all 
ah^ut the conspiracy.” 

“ When ?” 

44 About a week ago : so that, if 


4f>: 

your Majesty’s enemies ever lay their 
hands on him, he is a dead man.” 
Gorenflot only heard the latter 
words. 

u A dead man !” 

He fell down on his hands. 
u Worthy man,” said the King, 
casting a gracious look on the mass 
of flesh, which, in the eyes of a sen- 
sible man, would only have represent- 
ed a bulk of matter capable of ab- 
sorbing or extinguishing the fires of 
intelligence, u worthy man, we take 
him under our protection!” 

Gorenflot’s eye caught a glimpse of 
that look of mercy ; like the antique 
mask of the parasite, he remained 
laughing on one side of his face, and 
crying on the other. 

u And thou wilt do right, King of 
mine,” suggested Chicot. u for he 
has assisted us with wonderful zeal.” 
u What think you should be done 
for him ?” asked the King. 

u I think that so long as he remain 
in Paris, he will run great danger.” 
u Suppose I give him guards ?” 
said Henry. 

Gorenflot heard the King’s propo- 
sition. 

u Good,” said he : “ it seems that 
I shall get off with imprisonment. I 
shall like that better than the strap- 
pado, provided they feed me well.” 
u No,” said Chicot, u that will 
not be necessary. Give him in charge 
to me.” 

“ Where will you keep him ?” 
u In my own quarters.” 
u Well, take him, and join me at 
the Louvre, whither I shall now has- 
ten, in order to assist my friend^ in 
their preparations for to-morrow.” 
u Rise, reverend father,” said Chi- 
cot to the monk. 

u He is mocking me,” said Goren- 
flot. u Bad-hearted man!” 

u Rise, brute, I tell thee !” said 
Chicot, pushing him with his knee. 

u Oh, I have deserved it all !” cried 
Gorenflot. 

u What does he say ?” asked the 
King/ 

u Sire,” replied Chicot, u he is re- 
calling to mind all his exertions — lie 


463 


DIANA OF MERIDOR: OR 


is counting over all lie has suffered, 
and as I promised him your Majes- 
ty’s protection, he says with the con- 
sciousness of a man who knows his 
own value — “ I have deserved it all.” 
u Poor devil !” said the King. 
u Take good care of him, Chicot.” 
u Make your mind easy, Sire ; he 
shall want for nothing in my com- 
pany.” 

u Oh, Monsieur Chicot,” cried 
Gorenflot, u mv dear Monsieur Chi- 
cot, where am I to be taken to?” 
u You will learn, presently. Mean- 
while, thank his Majesty, thou mon- 
ster of iniquity— thank his Majesty.” 
u For what ?” 

u Thank his Majesty, I tell thee !” 
u Sire,” stammered Gorenflot, 
u since your gracious Majesty” — 

“ Yes,” said Henry, u I know all 
that you have done — during your 
journey to Lyons on the evening of 
the League — and likewise to-day. 
You shall be rewarded according to 
your merits, you may rely upon it.” 
Gorenflot groaned. 
u Where is Panurge?” asked Chi- 
cot. 

u In his stable, poor beast.” 
u Well, go for him, mount him, 
and come back and join me here.” 
u Yes, Monsieur Chicot. 

The monk hurried off as fast as he 
could, astonished not to see the 
guards follow him. 

u Now, my son,” said Chicot, 
u take twenty men of thy escort, and 
detach ten others with Monsieur 
Crillon.” 

u Where shall I send them ?” 

To the Hotel d’ Anjou, with 
orders to bring your brother to your 
presence.” 

“ What for?” 

“That he may not make his es- 
cape a second time.” 
u Has my brother” — 

“ Have you done wrong in follow- 
ing jny advice to-day ?” 
u No, par la Mordieu /” 

“ Then do what I tell you.” 

Henry gave orders to the Colonel 
of the French Guards to fetch the 
Duke of Anjou to the Louvre. 


Crillon, who bore the prince no 
particular good-will, started on the 
instant. 

“ And you ?” said Henry. 
u I shall wait here for my saint.” 
u You will meet me at the Lou- 
vre ?” 

u In an hour’s time.” 

“ Then I leave you.” 

Henry departed with the remain- 
der of the escort. 

As for Chicot, he bent his steps 
towards the stables : on entering the 
yard he espied Gorenflot astride Pa- 
nurge. 

The poor devil had not even an 
idea of escaping the fate that was 
hanging over him. 

u Come on, come on,” said Chicot, 
taking Panurge by the halter; u we 
must make haste — they are waiting 
for us.” 

Gorenflot made not a shadow of re- 
sistance ; only, he wept so much as 
to grow visibly thinner. 

“ I said it would come to this,” 
he murmured — u I said so.” 

Chicot shrugged his shoulders, and 
pulled away at Panurge. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WHEREIN CHICOT GUESSES THE REA- 
SON WHY D’EPERNON HAD BLOOD 
ON HIS FEET, AND NONE ON HIS 
FACE. 

The King, on his return to the 
Louvre, found his friends in bed, and 
fast asleep. 

Historical events have the remark 
able property of reflecting their im- 
portance on the events that precede 
them. 

Those persons, therefore, who will 
consider what events were to take 
place that very morning — for it was 
close upon two o’clock when the King 
returned to the Louvre — those, we 
s\y, who will, with a presentiment of 
the result, consider the events that 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


469 


were shortly to take place, will per- 
haps see with interest, a King, who 
had just come well nigh losing his 
crown, betake himself to the bed-side 
of three friends, who are, for his 
sake, about to face a danger in which 
they may lose their lives. 

The poet, that privileged being 
who foresees not, but who divines, 
will, we are certain, gaze, with melan- 
choly tenderness, on those youthful 
countenances now wrapped in refresh- 
ing slumbers — now smiling in their 
sleep, and like brothers under the pa- 
ternal roof, reposing in beds placed 
side by side each other. 

The King trod lightly as he ap- 
proached the couches ; he was fol- 
lowed by Chicot, who, after deposit- 
ing his charge in a place of safety, 
had joined the King. 

One bed was empty — that of D’- 
Epernon. 

u Not yet returned home ! Im- 
prudent youth !” muttered the King. 
u Oh, fash man — mad man, to fight 
against Bussy, the bravest man in 
France — the most dangerous man in 
the world — and to think nothing 
about it !” 

u True,” said Chicot — u I had for- 
gotten.” 

u Let him be sought out — let him 
be brought here !” cried the King. 
u And then send for Miron ; I will 
have him put the giddy youth asleep 
in spite of himself. I want sleep to 
give him the strength and activity he 
will require to defend his life.” 

u Sire,” said an usher, u Monsieur 
d ’Epernon has just come in, and 
here he is.” 

As the usher said, D’Epernon had 
just returned ; on being informed of 
the King’s presence at the palace, he 
felt certain that he would visit the 
dormitory, which he hoped to be able 
to reach unperceived. 

But people were on the watch, and, 
as has been seen, his return was speed- 
ily announced. Seeing the impossi- 
bility of escape, he stood at the door, 
silent and confused. 

u Ha, there you are at last !” 
said Henry u Come over here, rash 


youth, and look at your friends !” 
D’Epernon glanced round the room, 
and made a sign that he had seen. 

u Look at your friends,” continued 
Henry : u they are wise, and feel the 
importance of the adventure in which 
they are engaged : whereas, you, rash 
youth, instead of praying, as they 
have done, and of being, like them, 
asleep, you are running about, dice- 
playing, and amusing yourself ! Cor - 
dieu , how pale you are, and a pretty 
figure you will cut to-morrow, if you 
are already done up to-night. 

D’Epernon was, in fact, very pale 
— so pale that the King's remark 
caused him to blush. 

u Come,” continued Henry, u to 
bed — I order you ! Can you even 
sleep ?” 

u I,” said D’ Epernon, as though 
the question had wounded him to the 
heart. 

“ I ask if you will have time to get 
any sleep. Do you not know that 
you are to fight at day-break, and that 
in this unlucky season of the year, the 
sun rises at four o’clock, so that you 
have scarcely two hours for rest ?” 
u Two hours well employed, Sire, 
suffice for many things.” 

u Will you be able to sleep ?” 
u Perfectly, Sire.” 
u I do not believe it.” 

“ Why so?” 

u Because you are agitated— you 
are thinking of to-morrow. Alas, 
you are right, for to-morrow is to-day ! 
But my tongue refuses to say that we 
have, at last, reached the fatal day.” 
u Sire,” said D’ Epernon, u I shall 
sleep, but, in order to be able to 
do so, your Majesty must let me.” 
u He is riirht,” said Chicot. 
D’Epernon undressed himself, and 
lay down with a calmness of manner, 
and even with a degree of apparent 
satisfaction, that seemed of good 
omen to the King and Chicot. 

“ He is as brave as Csesar,” said 
the King. 

u So brave,” said Chicot, scratch- 
ing his ear, u that really it passes my 
comprehension.” 

u See — he is already asleep !” 


470 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


Chicot went over to the bed, for he 
could scarcely credit that D’ Eper- 
non’s equanimity went so far as that. 
u Oh, oh !” said he suddenly. 
u What?” asked the King. 
u Look !” 

And Chicot pointed with his fin- 
ger to D’ Epernon’s boots. 

u Blood !” murmured the King. 

O 

u He has been wading in blood, 
my son. What a brave fellow !” 
u Can he be wounded ?” asked the 
King, uneasily. 

u Bah ! he would have told you. 
Beside, where can he be wounded, 
unless it be, like Achilles, in the 
heel !” 

“ See here ; his doublet is also 
stained ! Look at the sleeve ! What 
can have happened to him ?” 

u Perhaps he has killed some one,” 
said Chicot. 

“ What for ?” 
u To try his hand.” 
u It is very strange,” said the 
King. 

Chicot scratched his ear more se- 
riously than ever. 

u Hum, hum !” he ejaculated. 
u You do not answer me.” 

<c Yes, I do. Hum, hum, hum ! 
That means a great deal, it seems to 
me.” 

u Gracious heaven !” said Henry, 
u what is going on about me, and 
what have I to expect ? Luckily, by 
to-morrow — ” 

u To-day, my son ; you are always 
confounding.” 
u True.” 

“ Well, to-day ?” 
u My mind will be easy.” 

“ Why so?” 

Because they, will have killed the 
Angevins.” 

u You think so, Henry?” 
u I am sure of it ; they are brave.” 
u I have never heard it said that 
the Angevins were cowards.” 

u Of course they are not ; but see 
how strong mv friends are — look at 

O t 

Sehomberg’s arm — what fine muscles 
— what fine arms!” 

u Ah, if you were to see Antra- 
guet’s !” 


' u Look at Quelus’ haughty lips, 
and Maugiron’s forehead, proud even 
in his sleep. With such faces, victo- 
ry is certain. When such eyes as 
these are flashing with warlike fury, 
the enemy must yield.” 

u My dear Henry,” said Chicot, 
sadly, and shaking his head, u there 
be under brows as haughty as those I 
see before me, eyes that I know well, 
not less terrible in battle than those 
thou speakest of. Have you nothing 
else to reassure your mind ?” 

u Yes: come, I want to show you 
something.” 

“ Where?” 
u In my cabinet.” 
u And the something you want to 
show me, does it help to make you 
confident of the triumph of your 
friends ?” 

“ Yes.” 

u Then let us go and look at it.” 

“ Wait.” 

Again Henry drew near the sleep- 
ing minions. 

u What for ?” asked Chicot. 
u Hearken,” said the King : u I 

' <3 

do not want to distress them to-moi- 
row — I mean to-day — so I shall take 
my leave of them now.” 

Chicot shook his head. 
u Do so, my son,” said he. 

The intonation of voice with which 
he pronounced these words was so 
melancholy, that the King felt a thrill 
through his veins, and his eyes mois- 
ten with a tear. 

u Adieu, my friends!” murmured 
the King. u Adieu, my dear friends !” 
Chicot turned aside: his heart was 
no more of marble than the King’s. 

But soon his eyes involuntarily 
turned again on the sleeping minions. 

Henry was stooping over them, and 
kissing their foreheads, one after the 
other. 

A pale rose-colored taper gave light 
to this scene, and communicated its 
gloomy tinge to the draperies of the 
rooms and the countenances of the 
actors. 

Chicot was not superstitious, but 
when he saw Henry’s lips touch the 
foreheads of MaugiroD, of Quelus 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


471 


and of Schomberg, his imagination 
pictured to himself an afflicted 
mourner making his adieus to the 
already entombed dead ! 

u Strange !” said Chicot. u It is 
the first time I have had such feelings. 
Poor boys !” 

As soon as Henry had, for the last 
time, embraced his friends, D’ Eper- 
non’s eyes opened to see if he were 
gone. 

He was passing through the door, 
leaning on Chicot’s arm. 

D’Epernon jumped from his bed, 
and set about removing, as well as he 
eould, the blood stains from his 
clothes and boots. 

His occupation made his mind re- 
vert to the scenes he had witnessed at 
the Place de la Bastille. 

u I should never have had blood 
enough, ” said he, u for a man who, 
unaided, has shed so much to-night.” 
He returned to his bed. 

As for Henry, he took Chicot with 
him to his cabinet, and then opened 
a long ebony chest, lined with white 
satin. 

u See here,” said he, u look at 
this.’’ 

u Swords,” said Chicot. u I see 
them — what next ?” 

u Yes, they are swords, and swords 
that have been blessed, my dear fel- 
low.” 

u By whom ?” 

u By our Holy Father, the Pope 
himself, who granted this favor to me. 
Such as you see it, this chest has cost 
me twenty horses and four men, to go 
to Rome and back again — but I have 
the swords.” 

a Are they very sharp ?” asked 
Chicot. 

u Of course, they are ; but their 
great excellence, Chicot, consists in 
their being blessed.’ 

“ Yes, 1 know that, but I am, ne- 
vertheless, well pleased to hear that 
they are sharp.” 

Heathen !” 

u Come, my son, let us now talk 
about something else.” 

u Be it so : but make haste.” 
u You want to go to sleep?” 


“ No, I want to go and pray.” 
u Then, let us talk of business. 
Have you had my lord of Anjou ar- 
rested ?” 

u Yes; he is waiting below.” 
u What do you intend to do with 
him ?” 

u I intend to lodge him in the Bas- 
tille.” 


u It will be wise: only, take care 
to choose a dungeon, deep, secure and 
strong — that, for instance, which re- 
ceived the Constable Saint-Pol or 
Jaques d’Armagnac.” 

u Oh, make your mind easy about 
that.” 


u I know where there is some supe- 
rior black velvet for sale, mv son.” 
u He is my brother, Chicot.” 
u True, and the court family mourn- 
ing is purple. Do you intend to see 
him ?” 


u 


Certainly — were it only to take 
away from him all hope, by proving 
to him that his plottings are discover- 
ed.” 


“ Hum !” ejaculated Chicot. 
u Do you see any objection to my 
communicating with him ?” 

u No, but in your place 1 would 
strike out the conversation and rein- 
force the prison.” 

“ Bring up the Duke of Anjou,” 
said Henry. 

u I care not,” said Chicot, shaking 
his head, u but I stiok to my first 
idea.” 

The next moment, the duke enter- 
ed ; he was disarmed and very pale. 
Crillon accompanied him, sword in 
hand. 

u Where did you find him ?” said the 
King to Crillon, in just such a tone as 
he would have asked the same ques- 
tion, if.. the duke were not present. 

a Sire, his Highness was not at 
home when I reached the hotel ; but 
a few minutes after I had taken pos- 
session of it in your Majesty’s name, 
his Highness returned, and we arrested 
him without his making any resist- 
ance.” 

u Very lucky,” said the King, con- 
temptuously. 

Then turning to the prince : 


£72 DIANA OF ME RID OR . OR 


44 Where were you, Monsieur ?”J 

be asked. 

44 Wherever I was,” replied the 
dake, 44 rest assured that I was think- 
ing of your Majesty ” 

44 I guessed as much,” said Henry ; 
44 and your answer satisfies me that I 
was not far wrong in paying a like 
attention to you.” 

Francis bowed calmly and respect- 
fully. ^ 

44 Come, where were you repeat- 
ed the King, walking up to his bro- 
ther : 44 what were you doing, while 
your accomplices were being arrested ?” 
44 My accomplices !” said Francis. 
44 Yes, your accomplices,” repeated 
the King. 

44 Sire, your Majesty is certainly not 
well informed.” 

4 ‘ Oh, this time, Monsieur, you 
shall not escape me, and your career 
of crime is about being terminated. 
You are not yet my successor on the 
throne, brother of mine — ” 

44 Sire, in the name of heaven, be 
more moderate ! Some one must have 
prejudiced you against me.” 

44 Wretch,” cried Henry, infuriated 
by passion, 44 thou shalt be sent to 
starve in a dungeon.” 

44 I await your orders, Sire, and I 
will bless them, although they should 
strike me dead.” 

44 A truce with protestations, hypo- 
crite ! Where were you, I ask again ?” 
44 Sire, I was employed in your 
Majesty’s service. — I was assuring the 
glory and tranquillity of your Majes- 
ty s reign.” 

44 Oh !” said the King, petrified 
with amazement, 44 did any one ever 
hear such impudence !” 

44 Bah!” said Chicot, throwing 
himself back in his chair. 44 Let us 
hear all about it, prince — it must be 
curious and interesting.” 

44 Sire, if your Majesty were treat- 
ing me like a brother, I would be too 
glad to tell your Majesty all ; but, as 
your Majesty treats me as though 1 
were a guilty man, 1 shall wait until 
the event speaks for itself.” 

With these words he again bowed, 


and more profoundly than when he 
entered, to his royal brother ; then, 
turning to Crillon and the other offi- 
cers present, he added : 

44 Which of you, gentlemen, is to 
take the first prince of the blood to 
the Bastille ?” 

Chicot was thinking : a sudden idea 
flashed upon his mind. 

44 Ha, ha,” he muttered, 44 I think 
I now understand why Monsieur d’E 
pernon had so much blood about his 
feet, and so little about his face. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE MORNING OF THE DUEL. 

The citizens of Paris were as yet ig- 
norant of what had occurred ; but 
the royalist gentlemen and the parti- 
sans of the Duke of Guise — these 
latter all aghast — were waiting the 
turn of affairs, and preparing to con- 
gratulate the conqueror, whosoever it 
might be. 

O 

As may be inferred from the preced- 
ing chapter, the King did not sleep 
the whole night : he cried and he 
wept ; and as, after all, he was brave 
and experienced, especially in matters 
relating to duelling, he went out with 
Chicot, to render his friends the only 
service it was now in his power to 
render them. 

He went to inspect the ground 
where the duel was to be fought. 

It was a remarkable scene, and a 
scene that had not many witnesses. 

The king in a suit of maroon, wrap- 
ped in a large cloak, his ew T ord in his 
belt, and his hair and eyes hidden 
under his broad-brimmed hat, follow- 
ed the Rue St. Antoine, until he came 
to within about three hundred paces 
of the Bastille. Seeing a large crowd 
of persons a • little beyond the Rue 
Saint-Paul, he avoided the latter 
street, and took the Rue Saint-Ca- 
therine, which led him to the rear oi 
the Enclos des Tournelles. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


473 


It may be imagined what the crowd 
was doing at that spot : it was count- 
ing the dead. 

From the circumstance of his avoid- 
ing it* the King learned nothing of 

©70 o 

what had passed. 

Chicot, who had been present at the 
quarrel, or rather at the agreement, 
of the preceding week, explained to 
the King, on the very spot where the 
duel was to take place, the positions 
the parties were to occupy, and the 
conditions of the fight. 

As soon as he had possessed himself 
fully of all the details, Henry mea- 
sured the ground, looked between the 
trees, calculated the sun’s reflection, 
and then said : 

u Quelus will be greatly exposed ; 
he will have the sun on his right, ex- 
actly in his only remaining eye, while 
Maugiron will have all the shade. 
Quelus should have selected Maugi- 
ron’s place, and Maugiron, who has 
excellent eyes,* Quelus’s. So far, 
the arrangement is not satisfactory. 
As for Schomberg, who is weak in the 
leg, he has a tree to which he can re- 
treat in case of necessity. I feel, 
therefore, reassured on his account ; 
but Quelus, my poor Quelus !” 

He shook his head sadly. 

u It pains me to see you thus, my 
royal master,” said Chicot. u Cease 
tormenting yourself, que c liable ! Let 
things take their course.” 

The King raised his eyes to heaven 
and sighed. 

u See, oh God, how he blas- 
phemes !” he murmured. u But, luck- 
ily, he is only a fool.” 

Chicot shrugged his shoulders. 

u And D’Epernon,” resumed the 
King ; u I am really unjust — I was 
not thinking of him — D’Epernon who 
will have to encounter Bussy, see how 
he will be exposed. Look at the dis- 
position of the ground, honest Chi- 
cot ! On the left, a fence ; on the 
right a tree ; in the rear a ditch ! 
And D’Epernon, who will be compel - 

* Quelus had in a previous duel lost his 
right eye by a sword wound. | 


| led to break every minute ! For Bus- 
sy is a tiger, a lion, a serpent. Bus- 
sy is a living sword — a sword that 
can advance, retreat, develope itself 
or concentrate itself, like an animat- 
ed being !” 

u Bah !” said Chicot u I am not 
uneasy about D’Epernon.” 

u You are wrong ; he will be kill- 
ed.” 

u Ho ! He is not such a fool ! 
He has taken every precaution, rely 
upon it !” 

u How — what do you mean ?” 
u I mean that he will not fight 
Mordieu /” 

u Not fight ! Did you hear what 
he said awhile ago ?” 
u Every word.” 

“ Well ?” 

u Well ! And because I did hear, 
I repeat that he will not fight.” 
u Unbelieving and scornful man !” 
u 1 know my countryman, Henry ; 
but, take my advice and let us leave 
this, my dear master. It will pre- 
sently be daylight ; let us return to 
the Louvre.” 

u Can you think that I will remain 
at the Louvre during the fight ?” 
u Udsbuddikins, thou shalt remain 
there though ; for wert thou to b 
here, every one would say, in the 
event of thy friends proving victori- 
ous, that thou didst assist them 
with some species of magic, and in 
the event of their being vanquished, 
that thy presence had brought them 
ill-luck !” 

u And what is it to me what peo- 
ple will say ? I shall love them to 
the last.” 

u Defy opinion as much as you 
please, Henry ; I would even compli- 
ment you on your constancy to your 
friends, for it is a rare virtue among 
princes ; but, nevertheless, you must 
not leave my Lord of Anjou alone at 
the Louvre.” 

u Is not Crillon there ?” 
u Eh, Crillon is nothing but a 
buffalo, a rhinoceros, a bear — any- 
thing you please that is brave and in- 
vincible ; but your brother is a viper, 


474 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


a rattle-snake — any animal you I 
please, the power of which exists less 
in its strength than in its venom.” 
u You are right, I should have 
gent him instantly to the Bastille.” 
u I told you that you did wrong 
to see him.” 

u Yes, his ease and assurance were 
too much for me. And then that ser- 
vice he pretends to have rendered 
me.” 

u The best of reasons for mistrust- 
ing him, my son ! Let us return — 
take my advice.” 

Henry complied, and after casting 
a last look at the duelling ground, 
returned with Chicot to the Louvre. 
When the King and Chicot reached 

O 

the Louvre, they found the people of 
the royal household up and stirring. 
The minions were the first to awake, 
and were getting dressed by their ser- 
vants. 

The King inquired how they were 
occupied. 

Scliomberg was tying knots, Que- 
lus was bathing his eyes in vine-wa- 
ter, Maugiron was drinking a glass of 
Spanish wine, and D’Epernon was 
sharpening his sword on a stone. 

The labor of the latter was rather 
ostentatiously performed, for he had 
caused a grind-stone to be brought to 
the door of the common apartment. 

u And you say that such a man as 
that is not a Bayard ?” said Henry, 
looking tenderly at him. 

u No, I only say that he is a 
grinder, that is all.” 

D’Epernon looked up and cried, 

“ The King!” 

Then, notwithstanding the reso- 
lution he had taken, and even, inde- 
pendently of this incident, he would 
not have had strength to adhere to it, 
Henry entered the apartment. 

We have already said that he was 
a King full of majesty, and possess- 
ing great control over himself. 

His composed and ever smiling 
countenance did not, therefore, give 
the slightest indication of what was 

O 

passing in his heart. 

u Good morning, gentlemen,” said 


he. “ You seem to be in good 
spirits.” 

u Thank heaven-— yes, Sire,” re- 
plied Quelus. 

u You look gloomy, Maugiron.” 
u I am very superstitious, Sire, as 
your Majesty knows, and as I have 
had bad dreams, I am trying to re- 
cover my spirits with the assistance 
of a glass of Spanish wine.” 

u My dear fellow,” said the King, 
u you must remember, and I speak 
after Miron, who is a great doctor ; 
you must remember, I say, that 
dreams depend upon preceding im- 
pressions, and never influence acts 
that are to follow, excepting always 
by the will of God.” 

u I agree with you, Sire,” said 
D’Epernon, u and accordingly I am 
ripe for action. True, I, too, have 
had bad dreams, but bad dreams or 
good dreams, my arm is strong, and 
my eye sharp.” 

And he made a pass at the wall, 
nicking it with his freshly sharpened 
sword. 

u Yes,” interrupted Chicot, u yon 
dreamed that you had blood on your 
boots, and the dream is not a bad 
one ; it signified that you will, one 
of these days, be a conqueror in the 
style of/ Alexander and of Caesar. 

u My brave fellows,” said Henry, 
u you know that the honor of your 
prince is at stake, since it is, in some 
sort, his cause for which you are 
going to battle ; but, recollect that 
it is only his honor you will have to 
fight for ; give yourselves no concern 
about the safety of his person. I 
have, within the past few hours, so 
secured my throne that nothing will 
be able to shake it, for some time at 
least. Fight, then, for honor, and 
honor only.” 

u Sire, rely upon us ; we shall, 
probably, lose our lives, but your 
honor will be safe.” 

u Gentlemen,” resumed the King, 
u I love you with all my heart, and 
esteem you not less. Let me, there- 
fore, give you a word of advice ; let 
there be no misplaced bravery, it is 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


475 


hot by your deaths that you will vin- 
dicate my cause, but by killing your 
enemies.” 

u Oh, as for me,” said D’Epernon, 
u I shall give no quarter ? ” 

u As for me,” said Quelus, u I can 
make no promises. I shall do my 
best, that is all.” 

u And as for me,” said Maugiron, 
u I can promise his Majesty that if 
[ die, my enemy shall die with me.” 
u Do you fight with swords only?” 
u With swords and daggers,” said 5 
Schomberg. 

The King clasped his hand to his 
breast. 

Perchance, that hand and that 
heart, then in contact, spoke of their 
fears. A trembling hand and a beat- 
ing heart have a language of their 
own, but externally, with his proud 
heart, his clear eye, and haughty lip, 
he was every inch the King ; that is 
to say, he looked like a monarch 
sending his soldiers to do battle, not 
his friends to be slaughtered. 

u Really, Harry,” said Chicot, 
u you are looking sublime.” 

The gentlemen were ready. It 
only remained for them to make their 
obeisances to their master. 

u Do you go on horseback ?” asked 
Henry. 

u No, Sire,” said Quelus, u we 
shall go on foot ; the exercise will 
do us good by clearing our heads, 
and your Majesty has told us a 
thousand times that it is the head 
rather than the arm which guides the 
sword.” 

u You are right, my son — your 
head.” 

Quelus bent down and kissed the 
King’s hand — the others followed. 

D’Epernon knelt before the King, 
saying : 

u Sire, bless my sword.” 
u No, D’Epernon,” said the King, 
u give your sword back into the hands 
of your page. I have provided for you 
better swords than your own. Fetch 
the swords, Chicot.” 

u No,” said the Gascon; “ give that 
aommission to the captain of your 


guards, my son : I am but a fool, a 
heathen, perhaps, and the blessings 
might, perchance, be changed into 
fatal enchantments, if my friend, the 
devil, should take it into his head to 
look at my hands, and so see what I 
carried.” 

u What swords are those, Sire ?” 
said Schomberg, looking at the chest 
that was just brought in by one of the 
officers in waiting. 

u Swords from Italy, my son — » 
swords manufactured at Milan : the 
handles are good, you see, and as, 
with the exception of Schomberg, you 
have all delicate hands, you would 
soon be disarmed if you were not well 
fitted.” 

u Thank your Majesty — thank 
you !” exclaimed the young minions, 
in one voice. 

u Go, it is time,” said the King, 
unable any longer to master his feel- 
ings. 

O 

u Sire,” asked Quelus, u shall we 
not have the encouragement of your 
Majesty’s presence ?” 

u No, it would not be proper for 
| me to be present ; you are going to 
fight without its being known — with- 

o o 

out my authority : we must avoid 

seeming to attach importance to this 
duel — it must be looked upon as re- 
sulting from some private quarrel.” 

And he dismissed them with an air 
of imposing majesty. 

When they were out of his pre- 
sence — when the last valets had pass- 
I ed out through the palace gate, and 
| when the jingle of spurs, and of the 
cuirasses of the armed squires, had 
i died away in the distance, the King 
fell back on an estrade, exclaiming, 
u Ah, this will kill me !” 
u As for me,” cried Chicot, a I 
must see this duel ; “I have an idea, 
I know not why, that so far as D’Eper- 
non is concerned, something curious 
will occur.” 

u Are you going to leave me, Chi- 
cot ?” said the King, in a piteous 
tone. 

u Yes,” said Chicot, u and if any 
of the party should fail in his duty 


476 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


I will be there to stand up for my 
king.” 

u Go, then,” said Henry. 

.\nd taking his leave, the Gascon 
vanished with the rapidity of light- 
ning. 

The King now withdrew to his 
chamber, of which he caused all the 
shutters to be closed, forbidding the 
slightest noise to be made in the Lou- 
vre, and merely saying to Crillon as 
he passed : 

u If we are victors, Crillon, come 
and tell me ; if, on the contrary, we 
are defeated, strike three times at my 
door.” 

u Yes, Sire,” said Crillon, shak- 
ing his head. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
bussy’s friends. 

If the King’s friends passed the night 
in peaceful slumbers, so did the 
friends of the Duke of Anjou. 

After a good supper, to which they 
had invited themselves, without the 
advice or presence of their patron, 
who was not wont to interest himself 
as much about his favorites as the 
King, they retired to good beds pre- 
pared for them in Antraguet’s house, 
which, being nearest to the field of 
battle, had been chosen as the start- 
ing-place. 

One of the squires — Riberac’s — a 
great sportsman and skilful armorer, 
had been employed the whole day in 
furbishing and sharpening arms. He 
was, besides, directed to awaken the 
young knights at day-break: such, 
indeed, was his appointed office on 
feast-days, hunting-days, and fight- 
ing-days. 

Before supper, Antraguot had paid 
a visit to a small tradesman, living in 
the Rue St. Denis, and known by the 
appellation of the handsome image- 
woman, to whom he was very much 


attached. Riberac had written to his 
mother, and Livarot had made his 
will. 

When the clock struck three, that 
is to say, when the King’s friends 
were scarcely awake, they were all out 
of bed, dressed, and ready for action. 
They wore red hose, to prevent their 
foes from seeing their blood, and in- 
deed, as it might disturb their nerves, 
to avoid seeing it themselves : they 
also wore doublets of grey silk, in 
order that if they fought with their 
dresses on, their movements should 
be free and unincumbered. Lastly, 
they wore shoes without heels, and 
their servants carried their swords to 
avoid fatiguing their shoulders and 
arms. 

The weather was admirable foi 
making love, for fighting or for exer- 
cise. The sun was gilding the 
house-tops, and rapidly drying up the 
dews of the night. A perfume, at 
once pungent and delicious, ascended 
from the gardens, diffusing itself 
through the streets. The pavement § 
was dry, and .the air sharp. 

Before leaving the house they had 
sent to make inquiries for Bussy, of 
the Duke of Anjou. 

The answer was, that he had gone 
out the preceding evening, at ten 
o’clock, and that he had not been seen 
since. 

This messenger inquired if he had 
gone out alone, and armed. 

He was informed that he had gone 
out accompanied by Remy, and that 
both had their swords. 

For the rest, all this created no 
uneasiness : such was the confidence 
reposed in him, that his absences, 
even when prolonged beyond measure, 
never alarmed his attendants. 

All these details were repeated to 
the three friends. 

u I understand,” said Antraguet. 
u Have you not heard, gentlemen, 
that the King issued orders yesterday, 
for a grand stag-hunt, to come off* in 
the forest of Compiegne, and that 
Monsieur de Monsoreau was to be on 
the spot.” 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


<{ Yes,” replied his companions. 
u Then I know where he is. While 
the Grand-Huntsman is harboring the 
sfeao\ he is on the track of the Grand- 

O 7 

Huntsman’s hind. You may rely 
upon it, gentlemen, he is nearer the 
ground than we are, and will be there 
before us.” 

. u Perhaps so,” said Livarot, u but 
tired and worn out for want of sleep ” 
Antraguet shrugged his shoulders 
u Is Bussy ever tired ?” he replied. 
u Come, let us be moving, gentlemen ; 
we will take him up by the way.” 

The party started. 

It was precisely at the moment 
Henry was distributing swords to 
their foes ; they had, consequently, 
ten minutes advance on them. 

As Antraguet lived close by Saint- 
Eustache, they took the Rue des Lom- 
bards, the Rue de la Verrerie, and 
lastly the Rue Saint-Antoine. 

All these streets were deserted. 
Peasants from Montreuil, from Vin- 
cennes, or from Saint-Maurales-Fos- 
ses, with milk and vegetables, were 
sleeping on their carts or mules : 
they were the only witnesses of the 
passage of this valiant party, consist- 
ing of the three friends, followed by 
their pages and three squires. 

No more bravadoes, no more shout- 
in <r, no more threats, when men are 
going to fight, either to kill or to be 
killed ; when on both sides it is 
known that no quarter will be given, 
serious thoughts must occupy the 
niind. The giddiest of the three was 
that morning most thoughtful. 

On reaching the top of the Rue 
Sainte-Catherine, all three, with a 
smile that indicated they were just 
thinking of the same thing, looked in 
the direction of Monsoreau’s house. 

u A good place to see from,’’ said 
Antraguet, u and I feel certain that 
Diana will look more than once out 
of the window.” 

u Likely enough,” said Riberac, 
u for she has been there already, it 
ieems to me.” 

u What makes you say so ?” 

The window is open ” 


47*7 

u So it is ! But what is that' lad- 
der doing there ? the house has 
doors.” 

u Rather strange,” said Antraguet 
All three now drew nigh, with a 
presentiment that they would discover 
something serious. 

u We are not the only persons 
looking that way,” said Livarot. 
u See those peasants how they stand 
up in their carts, as they pass by.” 
They reached the balcony. 

A vender of vegetables was there, 
examining the ground. 

u Oh, Seigneur de Monsoreau,” 
cried Antraguet, u are you coming to 
see us ? If so, make haste — we want 
to be first on the ground.” 

They waited, but no answer came. 
u Hey, bumpkin !” said Livarot to 
the peasant. u What are you doing 
there ? Was it you that put up that 
ladder ?” 

u God forbid, gentlemen,” he re- 
plied. 

u Why do you say that ?” asked 
Antraguet. 

u Look up there.” 

All then raised their heads. 
u Blood !’’ cried Riberac. 
u Blood it is,” said the peasant 
u and very dark blood, too.” 

u The door is broken in !” ex- 
claimed Antraguet’s page. 

Antraguet surveyed rapidly the 
.door and window, and seimig the 
ladder, he was on the balcony in a 
second. 

He looked eagerly into the room. 
u What do you see ?” cried the 
others, seeing him stagger and change 
color. 

A cry of terror was his only an- 
swer. 

Livarot was now standing bv him. 
u Dead bodies — death — death, all 
round !” cried the latter. 

And both entered the room. • 
Riberac remained below, for fear of 
a surprise. Meanwhile, the excia 
mations of the peasant were collect- 
ing a crowd. 

The room bore the marks of the 
dreadful struggle cf which it kad 


475 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


been the scene. Stains, or rather | 
rivers of blood, were hardening on 
the floor. The hangings were rent by 
sword cuts and pistol balls. The 
furniture was lying broken and dis- 
colored, among fragments of clothes 
and flesh. 

u Oh, Remy,poor Remy !” sudden- 
ly cried Antraguet. 

u Dead ?” asked Livarot. 
u Dead and cold.” 
u Why, a regiment of roisters must 
have passed this way !” cried Livarot. 

At the same moment, Livarot saw 
that the passage door was open ; tra- 
ces of blood indicated that there, 
likewise, had been fighting ; he fol- 
lowed the dread tokens, until he 
reached the stair-case. 

The yard was silent and solitary. 
Meanwhile, Antraguet was exam- 
ining the adjoining apartment : there 
was blood everywhere — blood close by 
the window. 

He leaned out, and with awe-struck 
looks, surveyed the little garden. 

The livid and stiffened corpse of the 
unfortunate Bussy was still hanging 
from the iron railing. 

It was not a cry, but rather a roar 
that escaped from Antraguet’s breast, 
when his eyes fell upon his friend’s 
remains. 

Livarot rushed forward. 
u Look,” said Antraguet — u Bussy 
dead !” 

u Bussy murdered, thrown out of a 
window ! Come here, Riberac, come 
here.” 

Livarot ran down to the yard ; on 
the way, he met Riberac going up, 
and took him with him. 

They passed through a small door 
opening into the garden. 
u It is he !” cried Livarot. 
u His hand is chopped off!” said 
Riberac. 

u He has two balls in the breast !” 
u He is riddled with stabs !” 
u Ah, poor Bussy!” shouted An- 
traguet. “ Revenge — revenge !” 
Livarot now stumbled against a 
second body. 


u Monsoreau !” he cried. 
u What, Monsoreau, too ?” 
u Yes, Monsoreau, pierced like a 
sieve, and with his skull fractured on 
the pavement.” 

u Why, all our friends seem to 
have been murdered last night !” 
u And his wife, his wife !” cried 
Antraguet, u Diana, Madame Di- 
ana !” 

There was no reply, and no sound 
was to be heard, saving that which 
proceeded from the populace, now 
swarming through the house. 

It was at that moment that the 
King and Chicot reached the top of 
the Rue Sainte-Catherine, and were/ 
turning away to avoid the crowd. * J 
u Bussy, poor Bussy!” cried Ribe^- 
rac, in despair. 

u Yes,” said Antraguet, u they 
wanted to put out of the way the man 
they most feared of us all.” 

u Cowardly — base scoundrels !” 
exclaimed his companions. 

u Let us go and complain to the 
Duke.” 

u No,” said Antraguet u let us 
trust our revenge to no one but our- 
selves ; were we to do so, it would 
not be such as we must exact. 
Wait !” 

The next instant, he was standing 
beside Livarot and Riberac. 

u Friends,” said he, u look at that 
noble countenance of the bravest of 
men ! Look at his wounds still red 
with his blood ! Let him, dead, re- 
mind the living of their duty. He 
never trusted his revenge to any hand 
but his own — Bussy, we shall do as 
you would do — I swear that we shall 
have revenge.” 

Saying these words, he took off his 
cap, pressed his lips to Bussy’s lips, 
and, drawing his sword, dipped it in 
the blood of the dead man. 

u Bussy,” said he, u I swear on thy 
body that this blood shall be washed 
out in the blood of thy enemies !” 
u Bussy,” cried the others, u we 
swear to kill or die !” 

u Gentlemen,” said Antraguet, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


479 


Breathing his sword, u no quarter — j 
no mercy — is not that the word ?” 

The young men stretched forth 
their hands over the corpse. 

u INo quarter — no mercy!” they 
cried, simultaneously. 

u But,” said Livarot, u we shall 
now he only three against four.” 
u Yes,” said Antraguet, u but we 
shall not be murderers, and God will 
give might to the innocent. Fare- 
well, Bussy !” 

“ Farewell, Bussy !” repeated his 
two companions. 

And, with awe in their hearts and 
pallor in their faces, they issued from 
the accursed mansion. 

They felt that the sight of their 
dead friend multiplied their strength 
a hundred-fold ; they felt inspired 
with that generous indignation which 
renders man superior to his mortal 
condition. 

It was with considerable difficulty 
that they made their way through the 
dense crowd that was already assem- 
bled round the house. 

On reaching the ground they found 
their foes waiting for them, some seat- 
ed on stones, others picturesquely re- 
clining on wooden logs. 

Mortified at arriving so late, they 
had run the last part of the way. 

The four minions had with them 
four squires. 

Four swords, lying on the ground, 
seemed, like their owners, to be wait- 
ing and taking rest. 

a Gentlemen,” said Quelus, rising 
and saluting with a sort of haughty 
disdain, u we have had to wait for 
you ” 

u Excuse us, gentlemen,” said An- 
traguet, u we should have been here 
before you, but were detained by the 
absence of one of our party.” 

u Monsieur de Bussy !” cried D’ 
Epernon u Sure enough, I do not 
see him. He is not over prompt, this 
morning.” 

u We have already waited some 
time,” said Schomberg, u and can 
wait some time longer ” 

31 


u Monsieur de Bussy will not 
come,” replied Antraguet. 

The King’s friends, with the ex- 
ception of D’ Epernon, looked bewil- 
dered. 

u He will not come,” said he. 
u Ha, ha, is the bravest of men 
afraid ?” 

u That cannot be,” remarked Que- 
lus. 

u You are right, sir,” said Livarot. 
u Then why will he not come?” 
asked Maugiron. 

u Because he is dead,” replied An- 
traguet. # 

u Dead !” exclaimed the minions. 
D’ Epernon said nothing, but he 
slightly changed color. 

u Murdered,” added Antraguet. 
u Were you not aware of it, gentle- 
men ?” 

u No,” said Quelus. u How could 
we know anything about it ?” 

u Beside, is it certain ?” asked D’ 
Epernon. 

Antraguet drew his rapier. 
u So certain,” said he, u that here 
is some of his blood on this sword.” 
u Murdered,” exclaimed the King’s 
friends, u Monsieur de Bussy mur- 
dered !” 

D’ Epernon continued to shake his 
head with an air of doubt. 

u His blood cries out for ven- 
geance,” said Riberac. u Do you 
hear it, gentlemen ?” 

u Why,” said Schomberg, u your 
language seems to convey a strange 
meaning.” 

u Pardieu /” ejaculated Antraguet. 
u What does all this mean ?” cried 
Quelus. 

u Look around, and, as the law re- 
commends, see who is benefited by 
the crime,” murmured Livarot. 

u Will you explain yourselves more 
clearly, gentlemen?” cried Quelus, in 
a voice of thunder. 

u We have come here for that pur- 
pose, gentlemen,” said Riberac, u and 
we have now more reasons than are 
needful for cutting each other’s 
throats.” 


DIANA OF MERIDOR ; OR, 


(80 


u Come — quick — to work !” said D’ 
Epernon, snatching up his sword. 

u Ha, ha, you are in a great hurry, 
Monsieur d’ Epernon ! You were 
not so ready when we were four 
against four.” 

^ Is it our fault that you are now 
only three,” replied D’Epernon. 

u Yes, it is your fault,” cried An- 
traguet. u Bussy is dead, because cer- 
tain people preferred seeing him lying 
in his grave to seeing him standing 
here. He is dead, with his hand 
chopped ofF, that it might not be 
here to wield a sword. He is dead, 
because it was deemed necessary, at 
any price, to close those bright eyes 
that would have struck terror into all 
four of you Do you understand me 
now — am I sufficiently explicit?” 
Schoinberg, Maugiron and D ’Ep- 
ernon shouted with fury. 

u Enough, enough, gentlemen,” 
said Quelus. u Withdraw, Monsieur 
D’Epernon ; we will « fight three 
against three, and let these gentlemen 
see that we are not disposed, whatever 
our right may be, to take advantage 
of a misfortune which we deplore as 
much as they do. Come on, gentle- 
men, come on,” he added, throwing 
back his hat and raising his left hand, 
while with his right he swung his 
sword through the air — u come on, 
and you will judge for yourselves if 
men who can fight, as we can, under 
the face of heaven and the eye of the 
divinity, can be murderers ! Come 
on — room — room !” 

u I hated you before,” said Schom- 
berg, u now, I execrate you.” 

u And I,” said Antraguet, u an 
hour since, I could have killed you, 
but now I shall slaughter you like 
beasts of the field — on guard, gentle- 
men, on guard !” 

u With or without our doublets?” 
asked Schoinberg. 

u Without doublet or shirt,” said 
Antraguet. u With naked breasts — 
our hearts unmasked ! ’ 

The young men threw aside their 
doublets and tore off their shirts. 
u The deuce take it,” said Quelus, 


undressing, “I have lost my dagger. 
It was loose in the scabbard, and must 
have fallen from it on my way hither.” 
u Or you may have left it at Mon- 
sieur de Monsoreau’s, Place de la 
Bastille,” said Antraguet, u in a scab- 
bard from which you did not dare to 
withdraw it.” 

Quelus uttered a yell of rage, and 
placed himself on guard. 

“But he has no dagger, Monsieur 
Antraguet — he has no dagger,” cried 
Chicot, who just then reached the 
ground. 

u So much the worse for him,” said 
Antraguet, u it is not my fault.” 

And, drawing his dagger with his 
left hand, he too placed himself on 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

i 

THE FIGHT. 

The ground on which this terrible en- 
counter was about to take place, was, 
as has been stated, shaded with trees 
and privately situated. 

As a general thing, it was only fre- 
quented, in the day time, by children 
for the purposes of play, and in the 
night by drunkards and thieves who 
were in the habit of sleeping there. 

The barriers, erected by the horse- 
dealers, naturally kept off the passers- 
by, who, like the billows on the sur- 
face of the waters, always follow the 
current, and never stop or turn back, 
unless borne by some new eddy. 

This place was thus entirely neg- 
lected. 

Beside, it was very early, and pub- 
lic curiosity was fully occupied at 
Monsoreau’s house. 

Chicot, with a beating heart, al- 
though not naturally of a very tender 
disposition, sat down on a wooden 
balustrade in front of the lacqueys 
and servants. 

He had no liking for the Angevins, 
and he detested the minions : but, 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


481 


both parties were composed of valiant 
youths, through whose veins coursed 
a generous blood, that would probably 
soon be spilt in torrents. 

D’Epernon ventured to give utter- 
ance to another bravado. 

u What, are they afraid of me ?” 
he cried. 


During several minutes, an enor- 
mous time under the circumstances, 
there was a slight rustling of swords, 
but not what might be properly 
called a clashing of swords. Not a 
blow was struck. 

Ribe'rac, fatigued, or rather satis- 
fied with having made trial of his 


u Hold your tongue, gabbier !” said adversaiy, lowered his hand and 
Antraguet. paused. 

u I am in my right,” insisted D’Ep- Schomberg made two rapid steps, 
ernon, u itwastobe amatch of eight.” and dealt him a blow which was the 
u Come, be off!” said ‘Riberac first struck that day. 

impatiently, and barring the way. Riberac was wounded. His skin 

He withdrew with an air of lofty became livid, and the blood spouted 
pride, and sheathed his sword. from his shoulder. He broke for the 

u Come this way,” said Chicot, i purpose of thinking a moment of the 
( come this way, thou flower of chiv- extent of his injury, 
airy, else thou runnest the risk of Schomberg attempted to renew the 
spoiling another pair of boots, as thou blow, but Riberac raised his sword 

didst last night. by a parry in prime, and dealt him a 

u What says master fool ?” blow which hit him in the side. 

“ I say that there will be presently Each was now wounded, 

biood on the ground, and that you a Let us rest a little, if you 

had better take care or you will walk please,” said Riberac. 
in blood as you did last night.” Meanwhile, Quelus and Antraguet 

D’Epernon turned pale. All his were hotly engaged ; but Quelus, in 
boastful airs vanished under this ter- being deprived of his dagger, labored 
rible reproach. under a great disadvantage ; he was 

He sat down at a distance from obliged to parry with his left arm, 
Chicot, whom he could no longer and as the arm was naked, every parry 
look at without dread. cost him a wound. Without being 

Riberac and Schomberg approach- grievously hurt, at the expiration of 
ed each other, after making the cus- a few seconds, he had his hand all 
tomary salute. covered with blood. 

Quelus and Antraguet, who had Antraguet, on the contrary, aware 
been for the last few minutes on of his advantage, and not less skilled 
guard, made each a step in advance, than Quelus in the use of his weapon, 
and crossed swords. parried with the greatest success. 

Maugiron and Livarot, each sup- Three of his passes told, and the 
ported by a fence, were watching for blood streamed from Quelus’s breast, 
an opportunity to commence the ac- He was not, however, as yet, seriously 
tion with advantage. wounded. 

The fight began as the clock of L At each hit, Quelus cried out — 
Saint-Paul’s Church struck five. u It is nothing!” 

Fury was stamped on the counte- Livarot and Maugiron were still 
nances of the combatants; but, their advancing in their cautious method, 
closed lips, their expressive paleness, As for Ribe'rac, maddened by pain, 


and the involuntary trembling of their 
hands, indicated that their exaspera- 
tion was now controlled by their pru- 
dence, and that, like a fiery steed, it 
would not escape without doing 
damage. 


and feeling that he was beginning to 
lose his strength with his blood, he 
rushed at Schomberg. 

Schomberg did not retreat a step, 
and merely held out his sword. 


1 - 482 


DIANA OF MERIPOR; OR, 


The two combatants dealt each 
other two under blows. 

Riberac was pierced through the 
breast, and Schomberg wounded in 
the neck. 

Riberac, mortally wounded, laid 
hold of his dagger, and as he did so, 
uncovered himself. 

Schomberg used his advantage, and 
dealt Riberac a second blow, which 
cut into his flesh. 

But, Riberac, grasping his adversa- 
ry’s hand with his own right hand, 
with the other plunged his dagger 
up to the hilt into his breast. 

The sharp steel pierced his heart. 

Schomberg uttered a hollow groan, 
and fell on his back, dragging Ribe- 
rac with him, his sword still in his 
body. 

Livarot, seeing his friend fall, made 
a quick step in retreat, and ran over 
to him, pursued by Maugiron. But 
the former had the better of the race, 
and was able to assist in. extricating 
Schomberg’s sword from Riberac’s 
body. 

Just as he had accomplished this, 
he was overtaken by Maugiron, and 
was obliged to turn and defend him- 
self with the disadvantages of a slip- 
pery footing, a bad guard, and the 
sun in his face. 

Before two seconds had passed, a 
downward blow had laid open Liva- 
rot's head ; he dropped his sword and 
fell upon his knees. 

Quelus was hard pushed by Antra- 
guet. Maugiron made haste to give 
Livarot a finishing blow which laid 
him prostrate. 

Quelus and Maugiron remained 
against Antraguet alone. Quelus, 
indeed, was bleeding, but from slight 
wounds. 

Maugiron was nearly untouched. 

Antraguet was aware of his dan- 
ger ; he had not as yet received the 
slightest scratch, but he was begin- 
ning to feel exhausted : it was not, 
however, a moment to ask for a truce ; 
one of his foes, maddened by his 
wounds, was panting for revenge ; the 
other had tasted blood and thirsted 


for more. Striking Quelus’s sword 
violently aside, and availing himself 
of the interruption, he jumped nimbly 
to the other side of a fence. 

Quelus made a thrust, but only 
touched the wood. 

But Maugiron attacked Antraguet 
in flank. Antraguet turned, and Que- 
lus seized upon the opportunity and 
passed under the fence. 

u He is done for!” cried Chicot. 
u Long live the King !” cried D’- 
Epernofi. u At them, my lions, at 
them !” 

“ Silence, sir, if you please,” said 
Antraguet : u there is no occasion 

for insulting a man who will fight a,' 
long as he has breath in his body.” 
u And who is not dead yet,” cried 
Livarot. 

And at a moment when no one was 
thinking of him, and all hideous 
from the bloody slime that covered 
his body, he rose on his knees 
and plunged his dagger into 
Maugiron’s back, between the two 
shoulders. Maugiron fell heavily, 
exclaiming, 

u Jesus, my God, I am a dead man !” 
Livarot fell back fainting ; anger 
and exertion had exhausted his re- 
maining strength. 

u Monsieur de Quelus,” said An- 
traguet, lowering his sword, u you 
are a brave man ; surrender, and 
your life is safe.” 

u Why should I surrender ?” asked 
Quelus. U I am not down yet.” 
u No, but you are riddled witl 
wounds, and I am whole and sound.’ 5 
u Long live the King !” cried Que- 
lus. u 1 have still my sword.” 

And he dashed at Antraguet. 
who parried the blow, although it was 
delivered with great rapidity. 

u You have it no longer, sir,” said 
Antraguet, grasping Quelus’s sword 
near the guard. 

He twisted Quelus’s arm as he 
spoke, compelling him to drop his 
sword. 

Antraguet accomplished this with 
merely a slight finger cut in the left 
hand. 


* 


THE LADY OP MONSOREAU. 


483 


%c Ho !” shouted Quelus. <£ A 
sword — a sword I’ 1 

i 

And dashing at Antraguet with 
the spring of a tiger, he grasped him' 
round the body with both arms. 

Antraguet scarcely resisted this 
onset ; but passing his sword into his 
left hand, and his dasher into his 

Oo 

right, he gave Quelus stab after stab, 
bespattering himself at each blow 
with the blood of his foe. Quelus, 
however, did not relinquish his gripe, 
and kept shouting, 

u Long live the King.” 

He even succeeded in holding 
back the hand that was striking him, 
and in twisting his legs round his 

O u 

enemy, as the serpent does with its 
yet untasted prey. 

Antraguet felt his breath giving 
out. 

He finally staggered and fell. 

But as if luck that day was his 
portion, as he fell he almost crushed 
Quelus. 

u Long live the King !” murmured 

O O 

the latter, in his last agony. 

Antraguet having succeeded in ex- 
tricating himself from his grasp, and 
supporting himself on one arm, gave 
him one more blow, which pierced his 
breast. 

u Does that satisfy you ?” said he. 
u Long live the K — ” muttered 
Quelus, with his eyes half opened. 

All was over : silence and the ter- 
ror of death now reigned over the 
field of battle. 

Antraguet got upon his feet, all 
covered with blood, but it was the 
blood of his foe ; as has been said, he 
had merely a scratch on the hand. 

The terrified D’Epernon made the 
shin of the cross, and took to his 
heels, as though he were pursued by 
a spectre. 

Antraguet cast upon his compa- 
nions and foes, dead and dying, the 
same look with which Iloratius must 
ave surveyed the field of battle that 
mided the fate of Rome. 

Chicot ran over and raised up Que- 
whose blood was streaming from 
teen wounds. 


The motion restored him to con- 
sciousness. 

He opened his eyes. 
u Upon my honor, Antraguet,” 
said he, u I am innocent of Bussy’s 
death.” 

u Oh, I believe you, Sir,” said An- 
traguet, greatly moved. 

u Fly,” murmured Quelus, u fiy 
The King will not pardon you this.” 
u Sir,” said Antraguet, u and I will 
not, though the scaffold were staring 
me in the face. I cannot abandon 
you thus.” 

u Save yourself, young man,” said 
Chicot, u and tempt not heaven. 
You have escaped by a miracle — ask 
not for two the same day.” 

Antraguet went up to Riberac, who 
was still breathing. 

u Well ?’’ asked the latter. 
u We are victors,” replied Antra- 
guet, in a low tone, so as not to of- 
fend Quelus. 

u Thank you !” said Riberac — 
“ Go now.” 

And he fell back insensible. 
Antraguet picked up his own sword 
that he had dropped, and then thoso 
of Quelus, Schomberg and Maugiron. 

u Finish me, Sir,” said Quelus, 
u or leave me a sword.” 

u Here it is, Monsieur le Comte,’* 
said Antraguet, with an air of pro- 
found respect. 

A tear glistened in the eye of the 
wounded man. a We might have 
been friends,” he murmured. 
Antraguet put out his hand. 

“ Good,” said Chicot : u nothing 

j O 

could be more chivalrous. But, fiy, 
for you deserve to live.” 

u My companions ?” asked the 
young knight. 

u I will take the same care of them 
as of the King’s friends.” 

Antraguet wrapped himself in a 
cloak handed to him by his squire, 
and which served to conceal the blood- 
stains that covered his person : then, 
leaving the dead and wounded to the 
care of the lacqueys and pages, he dis- 
appeared through the Saint- Antoino 
gate. 


484 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


CONCLUSION. 

The King, pale with anxiety, and 
trembling at the slightest noise, was 
striding up and down the fencing- 
room, conjecturing with the experi- 
ence of a man whe had seen much, 
how long it took his friends to reach 
the ground — how long the duel lasted, 
and the good and bad chances in their 
favor, by reason of their characters, 
strength and skill. 

u Now,” he began, u they are 
crossing the Rue Saint-Antoine.” 
u Now, they are entering the 
lists.” 

u They are drawing. Now, they 

are engaged.” 

© © 

And at these words, the poor trem- 
bling monarch fell to praying. 

But the agitation of his heart ab- 
sorbed all other sentiments, and the 
devotion that moved his lips was 
purely mechanical. 

After a few seconds, the King rose 
from his knees. 

u Provided Quelus only recollects,” 
said he, a the cut-and-thrust I showed 
him — parrying with the sword and 
striking with the dagger.” 

u As for Schomberg, cool and reso- 
lute Schomberg, he will kill that 
Riberac.” 

u Maugiron, if he is not in ill- 
luck, will soon do for Livarot. But, 
D'Epernon ! Oh, he is a dead man. 
Fortunately he is the one I least care 
for. But, unfortunately, his defeat 
will have consequences. Once he is 
killed, Bussy, that terrible Bussy will 
fall on the others. Ah, my poor 
Quelus — my poor Schomberg — my 
poor Maugiron !” 

u Sire,” said Crillon’s voice at the 
door. 

u What, already ?” cried the King. 
45 No, Sire ; 1 bring no news, ex- 
cept that the Duke of Anjou would 
speak with your Majesty.” 

44 What for?” asked the King, 
still speaking through the door. 

44 He says that the time has arrived 
for him So communicate to your Ma- 
th*, nature of the :ervice Ik ha3 


rendered your Majesty, and that 
what he has to tell your Majesty, 
will remove almost entirely your Ma- 
jesty's apprehensions as to the result 
of the duel.” 

44 Well, fetch him here,” said the 
King. 

At the same moment, and as Crillon 
was on his way to execute the royal 
command, a hurried foot-step might 
have been heard in the gallery, and 
also a voice saying to Crillon — 

“ I must speak to the King in- 
stantly.” 

The King, recognizing the voice 
opened the door himself. 

44 Come hither, Saint-Luc, come,” 
said he. 44 What is the matter? 
Speak — you look as though you had 
lost your senses.” 

44 Sire, one of the most valuable of 
your subjects — one of your soldiers — 
the bravest; — ” 

Speech failed him. 

44 Oh !” ejaculated Crillon, step- 
ping forward, for he took it for 
granted that the last epithet alluded 
to him. 

44 Was killed last night — basely 
murdered,” continued Saint-Luc 
completing his phrase. 

The King, pre-occupied as he was, 
by one single idea, breathed more 
freely. It was not one of his friends, 
since he had seen them all four that 
same morning. 

44 Murdered last night !” said the 
King. 44 Of whom are you speaking, 
Saint-Luc ?” 

44 You never liked him, Sire — I 
know that,” continued Saint-Luc, 
44 but he was faithful, aye, and ready 
— I can bear witness — to shed his 
blood for your Majesty ; otherwise 
he would not have been my friend.” 

44 Ah !” said the King, beginning 
to understand. 

And something like an expression 
of hope, if not of joy, flashed across 
his face. 

44 Avenge Monsieur de Bussy !” 
cried Saint-Luc. 44 Avenge him !” 

44 Monsieur de Bussy ?” said the 
K';ig, dwelling on every syllable. 


THE LADY OF MONSOREAU. 


485 


u Yes, Monsieur de Bussy, who i 
was waylaid last night by twenty 
assassins, and basely murdered. It 
was well that they were twenty, for 
he killed fourteen of them.” 
u Monsieur de Bussy dead !” 
u Yes, sir.” 

u Then he does not fight this morn- 
ing !” suddenly said the King, carried 
away by an irresistible impulse 

Saint- Luc’s look of reproach was 
more than the King could stand. As 
he turned aside he perceived Crillon 
stationed at the door, and awaiting 
fresh orders. 

He motioned to him to bring in 
the Duke of Anjou. 

u No, Sire,” resumed Saint-Luc, 
u Monsieur de Bussy does not fight 
to-day, and that is the reason why I 
have come to solicit, not revenge, as 
1 was wrong in saying to your Majes- 
ty, but justice *; for I love my king, 
and especially the honor of my king, 
above everything else ; and in my 
opinion, the murder of Monsieur de 
Bussy was a deplorable service to ren- 
der your Majesty.” 

The duke had just reached the 
door, where he stood motionless like 
a statue of bronze. 

Saint-Luc’s language was pregnant 
-with meaning : it reminded the King 
of the service which his brother claimed 
to have rendered him. 

He exchanged looks with the duke, 
and was satisfied that he now rightly 
understood what that service was ; for 
the duke signified his participation 
by an almest imperceptible nod. 

u Do you know what people will 
say ?” said Saint-Luc : u it will be 
said, if your friends come off victo- 
rious, that you assisted them by caus- 
ing Monsieur de Bussy to be murder- 
ed.” 

u Who will say that, sir ?” asked 
the King. 

u Pardieu , every one !” said Crillon, 
mingling unceremoniously in the con- 
versation, as was his wont. 

u No, sir,” said the King anxiously, 
and influenced by the opinion of him 
who was the bravest man in his king- 


dom, now that Bussy was dead : — 
u no, sir, it will not be so said, for 
you shall name the murderer.” 

Saiut-Luc saw the reflection of a 
shadow. 

It was the Duke of Anjou, who had 
advanced a few steps into the room. 
Saint-Luc turned round and recog- 
nized him. 

u Yes, Sire,” said Saint-Luc, u I 
shall name him, for I would at any 
price exculpate your Majesty from 
such a dreadful suspicion.” 

u Well, speak.” 

The duke stopped and quietly wait 
ed. Crillon was standing behind him, 
shaking his head, and looking askant 
at him. 

u Sire,” resumed Saint-Luc, u last 
night a trap was laid for Bussy, while 
he was visiting a lady by whom he 
was tenderly loved : her husband, 
warned by a traitor, returned home 
with a gang of bravos : these were 
stationed everywhere, in the street, in 
the yard, and even in the garden.” 

If the shutters of the King’s 
room had not been closed, the duke 
might have been seen to turn pale, in 
spite of the control he possessed over 
himself. 

u Bussy defended himself like a 
lion, Sire, but they were too many 
for him, and” — 

u And he perished,” interrupted 
the King, u and perished justly, for 
certainly I will not avenge the death 
of an adulterer.” 

u Sire, I have not finished my tale. 
The unfortunate knight, after defend- 
ing himself for half an hour in the 
room — after getting the better of his 
foes — the unfortunate knight, I say, 
was making his escape, wounded, 
bleeding and mutilated ; it was only 
necessary ft extend the hand of com- 
passion to him, which 1 myself would 
have done, if I had not been made 
a prisoner of, together with the wo- 
man he had placed under my protec- 
tion — if I had not been tied and 
gagged. Unluckily for the guilty, 
they forgot to deprive me of the use 
of my eyes as they deprived me of 


486 


DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, 


the use of my tongue, and I saw, 
Sire — I saw two men go up to the un- 
fortunate Bussy, who was hanging by 
the legs from an iron spike — 1 heard 
the wounded man call upon them for 
help, for he had a right to look upon 
those two men in the light of friends. 
Well, Sire — horrible to relate, but 
believe me, it was still more horrible 
to see and hear, — one of the men 
ordered the other to fire, and he was 
obeyed.” 

Crillon clenched his hands and 
knit his brows. 

u And you know the assassin ?” 
asked the King, yielding to an in- 
voluntary feeling of pity. 
u Yes,” said Saint-Luc. 

And turning toward the prince, he 
added — with all the hatred he had so 
long kept back, now breaking forth in 
word and gesture : 

u The assassin was my lord — the 
assassin was the prince — the assassin 
was the friend ! !” 

The King was expecting this accu- 
sation ; the duke bore it without 
wincing. 

o 

u Yes,” said he quietly, u yes, 
Monsieur de Saint-Luc both heard 
and saw all that he has related. It 
was I who caused Monsieur de 
Bussy to be killed, and I leave it to 
your Majesty to appreciate my con- 
duct, for, although he was my ser- 
vant, I could not prevail upon him to 
abandon the purpose he had formed, 
of bearing arms this morning against 
your Majesty’s friends.” 

u Thou liest, assassin, thouliest !” 
cried Saint-Luc. u Bussy pierced 
with wounds, Bussy with his hand 
hacked to pieces, and his shoulder 
fractured by a bullet ; Bussy hanging 
by the leg from an iron spike ; Bussy 
was only fit to excite the compassion 
of his deadliest foes, and he would have 
obtained it. But, thou, the assassin 
of La Mole and of Ooconnas, thou 
killed Bussy, as thou hast killed, one 
after the other, all thy friends ! Thou 
killed Bussy, not because he was thy 
brother’s enemy, but because he was 
acquainted with thy designs. Ah, 


Monsoreau, too — well did he know 
why this crime was committed by 
thee !” 

u Cordieu muttered Crillon, 
u why am I not King 

u I am insulted in your presence, 
brother !” said the duke, pale with 
terror, for between Crillon’s convul- 
sive grasp and Saint- Luc’s exasperat- 
ed look, he did not feel safe. 

u Leave the room, Crillon !” said 
the King. 

Crillon went out. 

u Justice, Sire, justice !” continued 
Saint-Luc. 

u Sire,’’ said the Duke, u punish 
me for having saved, this morning, 
your Majesty’s friends — for having 
contributed to the success of your 
Majesty’s cause, which is the same 
as my own.” 

u And I,” said Saint-Luc, losing 
all command of himself, u I tell thee 
that the cause thou espousest is a 
cause accursed, and that where thy 
steps have trodden, the anger of the 
Almighty is sure to fall ! Sire, Sire, 
your brother has protected our 
friends — woe to thmn !” 

The Kin" trembled with terror. 

And now could be heard in the 
distance tumultuous noises, then hur- 
ried footsteps in the galleries, and 
next eager inquiries. 

All was hushed as death in the 
Kind’s room. 

In the midst of this stillness, and 
as if heaven deigned to verify Saint- 
Luc’s declaration, three knocks, struck 
slowly and solemnly by Crillon’s 
strong hand, shook the door. 

Cold perspiration bathed Henry’s 
temples ; his face, at the same time, 
was convulsed with agony. 

u Defeated !” he cried. u My poor 
friends defeated !” 

“ What did I say, Sire !” exclaim- 
ed Saint-Luc. 

The Duke clasped his hands in ter- 
ror. 

u See, coward !” said Saint-Luc, 
impetuously. u Thus do murderers 
save the honor of kings ! Come and 
murder me, too — I have no sword ” 


THE LADY OF MONSORE AD. 


481 


\s he spoke, he threw his silk glove 
‘n the prince’s face. 

Francis uttered a cry of rage, and 
turned deadly pale. 

Put the King heard nothing, saw 
nothing : his hands were covering his 

o o 

face. 

u Oh,” he murmured, u my poor 
friends ! They are defeated — wound- 
ed ! Oh, who will give me positive 
information ?” 

u I, Sire,” said Chicot. 

The King recognized the friendly 
voice, and stretched out his arms. 

“ Well ?” said he. 

“Two are already dead, and the 
third is dying.” 

u Which of them is the third who 
is not yet dead ?” 
u Quelus, Sire.” 
u Where is he ?” 

u At the Hotel Boissy, where I 
had him carried myself.” 

The King heard no more, and 
rushed from the room uttering la- 
mentable cries. 


Saint-Luc had removed Diana and 
placed her under the charge of her 
friend, Joan of Brissac ; this was the 
occasion of his delay in presenting 
himself at the Louvre. 

For three days and three nights 
Diana was raving mad, and for three 
days and three nights Joan watched 
over her unhappy friend . * 

On the fourth day Joan, exhausted 
by fatigue, ventured to retire to get a 
little rest, and when she returned, 
two hours afterward, Diana was gone. 

It is a matter of history, thatQue- 
lus, the only one of the champions 
of the King’s cause that was not 
killed on the spot, died in that same 
Hotel Boissy to which he had been 

* Perhaps the author may hereafter inform 
us in his novel to be intituled “ LesQmarante 
Cinq”( The Forty-Five), of the subsequent his- 
tory of the di tferent characters that have figur- 
ed in the “Lady of Monsoreav.” — E ditok ? 8 
Note. 


conveyed by Chicot, after an agony 
of thirty days, and in the King’s 
arms. 

Henry was inconsolable. He caus- 
ed to be erected to his friends three 
magnificent monuments, in which they 
were represented as large as life. He 
founded masses for the good of their 
souls, recommended them to the pray- 
ers of the clergy, and added to his 
own habitual orisons the following 
distich, which he never failed to re- 
peat daily, during the remainder of 
his life : 

“ Take, Oh Lord, into thy bosom 

Gluelus, Schomberg and Maugiron.” 

The Duke of Anjou was, for more 
than three months, kept under close 
watch ; the King hated his brother 
more than ever, and never pardoned 
him. 

The month of September was close 
at hand, when Chicot, who never left 
his master’s side, received a letter 
from the Priory of Beaume. The let- 
ter, written in a clerk’s hand, and 
containing much consolatory matter, 
if Henry had been in a state to re- 
ceive it, was as follows : 
u My dear Seigneur Chicot : 

u We have the finest weather in 
these parts, and the vintages of our 
country of Burgundy promise to he 
abundant this year. I hear that the 
King, our master, whose life I saved, 
it seems, is pining away with grief. 
Bring him to the priory, my dear 
Monsieur Chicot ; we will make him 
drink some wine of the year 1550, 
which I have discovered in my cellar, 
and which is capable of making him 
forget the troubles of the world ; that 
it will cheer him up, I have no doubt, 
for I have found in the Holy Scrip- 
tures the following admirable sen- 
tence : ‘ Good wine cheereth the heart 
of man.’ You have no idea how wel 
this sounds in Latin ; I will read it to 
you. Come, therefore, my dear Mon- 
sieur Chicot, come, and bring the 
King with you — and bring Monsieur 
d’Epernon and Monsieur de Saint- 


4*9 


DIANA OF MERIDCR. 




«**“•■*>*• 


Luc, and you will see how we shall 
fell grow fat. 

“ The Reverend Frior Go- 
renflot, who styles him 
* self your servant and 
friend.” 

jl\ S. — You may tell the King 
that I have not as yet had time to 
pray fn the souls of his friends, ac- 


cording to his orders, on account of 
the confusion attending my installa- 
tion, but that as soon as the vintages 
shall be gathered in, I shall certain- 
ly think of them.” 

u Amen said Chicot. u Their 

* 

poor souls are in good hands.’’ 


ALEXANDRE DUMi 



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